


The Truth is Green

by criminalkeen



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criminalkeen/pseuds/criminalkeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He had promised Sam that he would love her. It was both the easiest and the hardest promise he'd ever had to keep." After Red kills Tom, Liz must decide who she really trusts. AU, Post-Mako Tanida, Lizzington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tom

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Blacklist or its characters, however much I would like to. :-)

Daylight was fading fast, the final fiery streaks of orange light slipping beneath horizon, leaving a subtle aura of pink and purple to frame the gathering clouds. Raymond Reddington reclined leisurely in the passenger seat of his car, the day's newspaper spread out over his lap. Dembe, his bodyguard and most trusted friend, stood just outside the driver's side door, taking what appeared to be a very important phone call.

"Bad news, Raymond," Dembe said as he slipped back into the driver's seat, returning his aging flip phone to his jacket pocket. "They just decrypted a message sent to Mr. Keen. They suspect it is from his handlers." He paused, as if unsure how to continue.

Red was unfazed. "Why would  _anyone_  buy such a god-awful boat?" he wondered aloud, pointing to a picture in the ads section of the paper. When he looked up, Dembe wasn't smiling. "Ah, let me guess: they know we're on to him." It was only a matter of time anyway, he thought. "We'll just have to be a little more clever from this point forward," he said, returning his attention to the newspaper.

"Perhaps," Dembe said, his voice deep and resonant. "The message was…" He paused. "Mr. Keen has been ordered to eliminate his target."

Red looked up slowly. " _When._  When did they send the message, Dembe?"

"Over an hour ago." He shook his head. "I'm so sorry Raymond. I'm afraid we are too late."

"We're not too late. GO." Of course, what he really meant was "we  _can't_  be too late." Because if Elizabeth Keen was dead, then so was he...or he might as well be. There was really no point in going on without her.

As Dembe weaved deftly in and out of traffic, Red dialed Lizzie's number. There was no answer.

Moments earlier, he and Dembe had combed through Tom Keen's base of operations: an abandoned warehouse not too terribly far from where he and Liz lived. The stale white walls were plastered with rows upon rows of surveillance photos and newspaper articles, forming a meandering but undeniable link between the life of Elizabeth Keen and that of the notorious Raymond Reddington. It was clear that there had been some kind of altercation in the room, which for Red was simply a confirmation of what he already knew to be true: that Tom Keen was a very,  _very_  dangerous man. He had killed both the Cowboy and the girl. And now he was going to kill Liz.

Dembe shut off the headlights as they pulled in front of the Keen's handsome brownstone. There were lights on at the back of the house, and the door had been left ajar. Dembe moved to check the nearby alleyway as Red slipped inside, steeling himself for the sight of blood, or worse—a body. Instead, he found the living room as tidy as ever, with not so much as a pillow out of place. Suddenly he heard a shout from the direction of the kitchen.

"Who do you work for?!" A wave of relief washed over him at the sound of Liz's voice. He hurried toward her, imagining that she was probably tied to a chair, attempting to make conversation in a last-ditch attempt to prolong her life. How long had her so-called 'husband' been torturing her? The thought of it made his stomach churn.

Instead, he came upon a very different scene. Liz stood at one end of the dining room table, her gun trained at the far wall where Tom Keen was slumped in a pool of blood, presumably his own. He was unarmed, with both hands pressed firmly against his left thigh in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Liz's hands were shaking, her face streaked with tears.

"ANSWER ME!" She half-yelled half-sobbed, cocking the gun.

Tom rolled his head to the side, catching sight of Red in the shadows of the hallway.

"Well now. Look who's decided to join us," he sneered. "Welcome to the party Mr. Reddington."

Liz spun to her left as Red stepped into the light. "Red? What are you doing here?"

"Saving your life...though it looks like you already have that under control." He smiled and shook his head. " _Well done_ , Lizzie."

Tom laughed darkly, coughing up blood in the process. "The dear wife and I were just discussing new curtains for this room. I thought maybe blue would look nice but she  _clearly_  disagrees. What do you think?" He laughed at his own joke, sending another stream of blood trickling down his neck.

"I think your time is about done," Red replied coolly.

"C'mon Liz...you really trust this maniac? Hey. I have an idea. Why don't you ask him how your father died? Huh? Go ahead. Ask him."

Liz glanced sideways at Red, and back at Tom. "What are you talking about?" Her voice was strained. "What is he talking about?" She reinforced her grip on the gun, which looked like it might just shake right out of her hand.

"Nothing. He's just trying to distract you.  _Shoot him_ , Lizzie."

"Wait, you mean you two never discussed it during... _pillow talk_?" Tom's eyes were cold, calculating, his voice loaded with malice.

Red clenched his jaw as he slowly drew his gun.

"What's the matter," Tom taunted, "cat got your t—" BAMBAMBAM. Three deafening shots and Tom Keen—or whoever he really was—was no more. Red exhaled slowly as he lowered his gun.

"NO!" Liz screamed, dropping her weapon as she stumbled forward. Red caught her as they both dropped to their knees, wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed into his shirt. Her entire body was trembling now, her skin sticky with sweat.

"Call Mr. Kaplan," Red instructed Dembe when he appeared in the hallway. Dembe nodded and moved back toward the entryway to make the call.

"Shhhhh, it's over Lizzie," Red whispered, running his fingers gently through her hair.

"You didn't have to kill him," she whimpered into his chest, though deep down she knew that wasn't true at all. In fact, if there was anything she knew for certain, it was that Tom Keen had to die.

"I underestimated how dangerous he was."

Liz sat back, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "You warned me. I didn't want to believe you. Why couldn't I see it?"

"The people we love most are in the best position to deceive us. You couldn't have seen it even if you tried." He paused to tilt her head to the side, examining a shallow cut beneath her ear. "Are you hurt?"

She didn't respond. Something about the word "deceive" had triggered a thought in her brain. "He said to ask you about my father, but that doesn't make sense." She paused, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "My father died from cancer. Why would you—" she stopped, the implication of what she was about to say hitting her like a ton of bricks. "You...you  _killed_  him, didn't you?" She snatched her gun from the floor, pressing the barrel hard into his chest. Red said nothing, his expression pained.

"Tell me why I shouldn't." Her voice was low and would have been menacing had she not looked so patently pathetic.

Red opened his mouth and closed it again. Nothing he could say could ever take away the pain she was feeling. But maybe...maybe if he was honest with her, she could forgive him. Not now, but someday. "I'd known Sam for a long time," he began. "Over the years he and I grew very...close. The doctors gave him six weeks, give or take… six weeks of grueling rounds of drugs and seemingly endless misery. He didn't want to go through that, Lizzie. I promised him..." he swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "I promised him that I would look after you." A sad smile crept across his face.

"No," Liz croaked through gritted teeth, blinking away the tears. "You're lying!" She jabbed the gun harder into his ribcage.

"I'm only sorry that you didn't get the chance to say goodbye," he said softly. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, causing him to avert his gaze over Liz's head; down the hallway, Dembe gave him a nod.

Liz felt like throwing up. "Get out," she hissed between her teeth, lowering her gun. Red didn't move. Even in her agony she was beautiful, and he knew he only had moments to drink in her eyes, the soft curves of her face, before he had to leave her again. Perhaps their relationship was fated to be this way, her serving as only a brief flicker of light in the endless sea of darkness that had consumed his life. Or maybe...maybe there was hope for the both of them.

"I said GET OUT!" she shouted. He stood up obediently, taking a few steps back to give her some space. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff, commanding.

"Listen to me, Lizzie. Mr. Kaplan will be here soon. In five hours, you're going to call and report your husband as missing. Tomorrow morning, FBI investigators will swarm your house where they will find this slip of paper in Tom's school bag." Red slipped his hand into a black glove before removing a small piece of paper from his pocket and setting it carefully on the counter. "On it they'll find an address that you don't recognize, and at that address they will find enough to incriminate Tom. What they won't find, unfortunately, is enough to rule you out as a suspect."

"How long have you known about this?" Liz snapped.

Red smiled weakly. "Take care of yourself, Lizzie. I don't know when I'll see you again." He paused. "I am truly,  _truly_  sorry." And with that, he was gone.

Liz lowered herself slowly to the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest. Part of her wanted to take one last look at the man who was supposed to be her soul mate—the man that, just a few short months ago, she was going to start a family with. However, she couldn't bring herself to do it, opting instead to kick off her shoes and stare idly at her toes. She had a million decisions to make now, and none of them were easy. What would she do with the house? Would she keep her last name? She would have to...Tom was supposedly missing, not dead. How would she convince Cooper and Ressler that she had nothing to do with his disappearance? How would she convince them that  _Reddington_  had nothing to do with his disappearance?

And Reddington...he could go to hell for all she was concerned. How was it that everything seemed to be his fault but nothing actually was? She thought about what he had said about Sam and it made her blood boil. He killed the one person she had left in this world and then used his death to get her to open up to him. Another wave of nausea washed over her and this time she couldn't fight it, throwing up on the kitchen floor beside her. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she lay down and stared at the ceiling. Her brain was a swirling mess of thoughts, none of which made any sense, and before she knew it blackness was creeping in at the edges of her vision. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and promptly passed out.

Meanwhile, miles away in a non-descript black luxury sedan, the Concierge of Crime fought back tears. He and Dembe drove silently through the backstreets, onto the next safe house, onto the next plane, onto the next deal. Such was his life, and the only person he could blame for it was himself. He  _chose_  to pursue this path of vengeance. He could have just walked away.

A full twenty minutes passed before one of them spoke.

"Can I ask you something Raymond?"

"Yes."

"Miss Elizabeth... You love her." It wasn't really a question, but it got Red's attention.

It was a long time before he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."

"That changes things, does it not?"

Another long pause. "Yes my friend. I suppose it does." Protecting Liz was no longer solely about serving his own interests, or fulfilling a promise to an old friend. He loved her, and that complicated everything that he had planned for her. But maybe, just maybe, there was another way. He checked his watch. Mr. Kaplan would be there now, cleaning up the mess they had made. It would take a long time for Liz to recover from this, but he was confident she'd be all right. And if there was anything he knew about Elizabeth Keen (and truthfully, he knew much more than she did), it was that going through something like this wouldn't break her. It would only make her stronger.

_To be continued._


	2. The Aftermath

_Calling your name in the midnight hour_

_Reaching for you from the endless dream_

_So many miles between us now_

_But you are always here with me_

(Here with Me - Susie Suh x Robot Koch)

"Ms. Keen."

Liz's eyes flickered open momentarily, her eyelids heavy and swollen. She felt like a fish at the bottom of a deep lake, mired in mud and seaweed, being slowly reeled toward the surface and dragging up half the lake bottom in the process. A hand, small but strong, gripped her shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze.

"Time to wake up, dearie."

The voice was familiar—stern and feminine—and yet Liz couldn't place it. She forced her eyes open again, squinting through the hazy darkness. A light clicked on and a thin woman in a tan trench coat came into view, her perfectly straight hair and sharp, angular features identifying her immediately as the mysterious Mr. Kaplan. Liz swallowed. Her throat was  _parched_.

"Drink this," Mr. Kaplan ordered, handing her a glass of water from the coffee table. Liz sat up slowly, taking the glass with both hands, and attempted to arrange her face into an expression of gratitude. She looked around. She had been asleep on the living room couch for God knows how long while Mr. Kaplan had been busy cleaning up... _Tom_. Oh God, Tom. The events of the evening slammed into her mind all at once, leaving her feeling as if she might pass out again.

" _Red_." She breathed his name without really knowing why.

"Mr. Reddington is long gone, I'm afraid. But you needn't worry because everything is in order." A strange thought suddenly passed through Liz's mind: that Mr. Kaplan would actually make a great grandma. Not the kind that spoiled you and squeezed your cheeks when you visited, but the kind that had been through the war and could really teach you some things if you were willing to sit your ass down and listen.

"Oh, uh...right. What...uh...what do I owe you?"

Mr. Kaplan smiled. "You could never afford it dearie. Anyway, Raymond's already taken care of the bill. The only thing left for you to do is make the call." She handed Liz her cell phone. "I'll be taking my leave now."

_Raymond_. Liz was distracted momentarily by the use of his first name. It sounded so  _pedestrian_. Sure,  _Reddington_  sounded like a cold-hearted killer, but  _Raymond_...Raymond was gentle, soft.  _Snap out of it, Liz._  She nodded at Mr. Kaplan, unsure of what to say. Thanks for cleaning up the bloodbath in my kitchen? Thanks for disposing of my psycho husband's body? She watched warily as the older woman made her way out the door, disappearing into the night. Unlocking her cell phone, she dialed 9-1 and stopped, opting instead to go check on the state of the kitchen.

It was spotless. Moving to the far end of the room, she knelt and ran her hand over the wall where Tom had breathed his last, finding not a single hole or indentation. She couldn't smell the slightest hint of chemicals, either. Mr. Kaplan had to be dabbling in some  _serious_  black magic. Tom's wallet and phone were gone, and Liz assumed that his car had vanished as well. She thought briefly about visiting the address that Mr. Kaplan had surely stuffed into Tom's school bag, relishing the thought of finding  _anything_  that could help her understand what the hell she had missed...but no. She had her instructions, and as angry as she was at Raymond Reddington, she knew it would be in her best interest to do exactly as he said.

Returning to the living room, she sank into the armchair next to the couch and dialed the police.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"My husband…" she began, attempting to sound panicked. "He never came home tonight."

* * *

There was a flurry of activity in the days that followed. Sure enough, once the police discovered who she was, they turned the case over to the FBI, prompting an invasion of agents and a never-ending string of polygraphs, interviews and interrogations. Did she know about the warehouse? Weren't she and Tom planning to have a child? Was there any marital discord? Liz passed through it all with flying colors, playing the part of the distraught wife so well that she almost started to believe that Tom had, in fact, simply gone missing, instead of winding up a bloody exclamation point on her kitchen wall. Mr. Kaplan had thought of everything, too; there were several unanswered calls made from Liz's cell phone to Tom's the night of his disappearance, as well as to Tom's office at school.

Amongst themselves, the biggest question the investigators had was: Why would this guy be stalking his own wife? When they combed through the warehouse, they had found the pictures of Liz and several other individuals (all blacklisters from the past few months). What they didn't find, however, was a single solitary reference to Raymond Reddington.

In the end, protocols were followed, BOLOs were issued, and airports and bus stations were put on the alert. Based on the litany of weapons that were discovered at the warehouse, Tom was to be considered armed and dangerous.

When she had been cleared of any involvement, Liz had been forced to take leave, as there was no way she could be a part of the case. Cooper had insisted on moving her to a hotel for a week, calling for a 24-hour stakeout near her home in case Tom returned. It was at that very hotel, three days later, that Liz sat bolt upright in bed, Raymond Reddington's name on her lips. Beads of sweat rolled over her temples, soaking the hair around her ears and pooling around the straps to her tank top. She glanced at the clock and cursed; it was 4:28am.

Her dream was the same nightmare about the fire that she usually had, except that this time, her husband was walking toward her through the flames, his eyes nothing more than hollow black holes. He raised his gun, pressing the barrel into her forehead. When he pulled the trigger, she woke up.

Shivering, Liz sank back into her pillow and pulled the comforter up around her shoulders. She had somehow managed to avoid thinking about Red for the past few days, but now all she could think about was the way she'd spoken to him that night. She hadn't missed the tear that trickled down his cheek as she yelled at him to leave. The pain in his eyes as she pushed him away. At the time, she couldn't have cared less, but now… now her anger had faded, leaving behind an aching loneliness and a heaping side of regret. The truth was,  _she missed him_...and she had no idea what to do with that. She closed her eyes, remembering what it was like to have his arms around her, the way he breathed against her neck as he ran his fingers through her hair. Before she knew it she had reached for her phone and opened her contacts, her thumb hovering over "Nick's Pizza." What would she even say to him? Apologies weren't really their thing. Maybe she wouldn't say anything, and just listen to him say her name over and over...

Her heart pounded as she lifted the phone to her ear.

There was no answer. She tried four more times before finally giving up and falling back asleep.

When she woke again it was nearly noon, and Agent Donald Ressler was knocking at her door. Gathering her hair into a hasty ponytail, she pulled on a pair of jeans to go with her black tank top and yanked open the door.

"Keen," he said with a grin. "Thought you could use some company. And before you say no: I brought lunch." He held up two large white paper bags, each emitting a faint aroma of soy sauce.

Liz smiled gratefully. "How could I say 'no' to that?"

Ressler glanced around the small room, taking in the cheesy artwork and dark, drab furniture. "Wow... looks like the FBI spared  _every_ expense with this place."

Liz hadn't thought about it much, but now that he mentioned it, the hotel  _was_ kind of awful. She spread the curtains to let in some light and gestured for him to sit down at the little table in the corner of the room. She watched somewhat nervously as he unpacked an assortment of cardboard and styrofoam containers, some full of noodles, some full of rice, and one—much to her delight—full of crab rangoons. "Chopsticks or fork?" he asked.

"Chopsticks, thanks." She wondered what he wanted to talk about. Was this really just a social call?

He took his time arranging his food around him before digging into his lo mein. When he looked up, his expression was hesitant. "How are you, Liz?" he asked tentatively, his eyes full of concern.

"Tired," she replied truthfully. "And confused. It's all still so surreal... I mean, he  _came_  to the blacksite, you know? We  _cleared_ him. That was supposed to be it, and now..." she trailed off, ripping apart a crab rangoon and bathing it in sweet and sour sauce.

Ressler nodded thoughtfully. "Have you heard from Reddington?"

"Not a word. Not since Mako Tanida—" she stopped herself, instantly regretting saying his name. It was obvious that Ressler was still hurting from the whole ordeal, and likely would be for a very long time. She had no idea whether or not he held Reddington responsible for Audrey's death, but she assumed that he didn't. After all, he  _did_  go to Reddington for help with his almost-killing-spree…

When she met his eyes, he looked as if he was trying to decide whether or not to tell her something. He looked down, swirling his chopsticks through the box of noodles absent-mindedly, allowing a few moments to pass by in silence. "I haven't told anyone else this, but...Audrey was pregnant," he said quietly.

"Oh God. Don, I'm so sorry."

"It's just… I guess I feel your pain." He swallowed hard and proceeded to stuff his face with rice. "You were going to adopt, right?"

"Yeah."

He paused. "I want to tell you about the case."

"You're not supposed to discuss it with me," she reminded him.

"I know. But if it were me, I'd want to know."

"Donald Ressler, are you about to break protocol for me?" Liz grinned. She hadn't really meant for that to come out as flirty as it did, and she hoped he wouldn't take it the wrong way.

He laughed. "I think I said goodbye to protocols a few weeks ago, when you kept me from making the worst mistake of my life. I never thanked you for that, by the way," he said seriously.

"We're  _partners_ ," Liz said, careful to emphasize the word. "It's my job to keep you from screwing up your life."

He smiled. "Look, we haven't found much. We've been through Tom's computer,  _your_ computer, his phone records,  _your_ phone records, your joint bank account… and there's nothing. No secret accounts, no apparent aliases...which is why we're dragging up the evidence from last time, to see what we missed."

"The gun, the passports…"

"The Angel Station shooting, Gina Zanetakos's confession… it's all fair game at this point."

"Thanks for the update," Liz said appreciatively. "Sounds like I might not be back to work for awhile."

"Actually, Cooper's ready to hand this off to another team. And unless Reddington makes contact, we've got plenty of cases to keep us busy. We need you back, Keen."

"It would be a welcome distraction, that's for sure."

"Now…" He reached into the bottom of one of the paper bags and tossed her a fortune cookie. "We have to find out our fortunes," he said with a wink.

Liz rolled her eyes as she unwrapped her cookie and snapped it open. "What's yours say?"

"Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. You will soon receive a promotion," he read. "All  _right_ , that's what I'm talking about! What's yours?"

"You will find comfort in an unexpected place." She smiled. "I'd say that one already came true today."

"Indeed," Ressler said, returning her smile. "Right here in this shithole of a Holiday Inn Express."

As they finished their lunch, their conversation turned toward lighter things—the best concerts they'd been to, how much they couldn't wait for spring to arrive, and what exactly  _does_  Harold Cooper do in his spare time? As she walked him to the door, Liz found herself agreeing to a beer or two after work sometime, and Ressler remembered to tell her that Aram would be dropping by later with her laptop.

It wasn't until hours after he'd left that Liz's thoughts returned to her dream, and the name that she had cried out into the darkness.

* * *

" _Lizzie_." Red woke with a start, reaching instinctively for his gun. He had fallen asleep in a chair again, and it took him awhile to remember what particular chair this was, in which house, and in which country. Turns out, it wasn't a house at all but rather a hotel room—a sleazy pay-by-the-hour establishment in some dodgy section of Moscow. He rubbed his eyes. Dembe was snoring softly across the room, which should have given him cause for concern...but ah, what the hell—the guy had to sleep  _sometime_.

He moved quietly to the bathroom and closed the door. Turning on the light, he splashed cold water on his face, stopping for a moment to examine his appearance. His cheeks sagged, his eyes sunken, lifeless. He hadn't even bothered to shave in over a week. In a word: he looked like shit, and no amount of expensive ties, stylish fedoras, and crisp white dress shirts could fix it. If only he could get some  _sleep_ …

The night after Tom died, his nightmares had returned. They played out the same as they always had, with him trudging through the snow toward the warmth of his home and family on Christmas Eve—except this time, it wasn't  _his_ home he was approaching. It was Elizabeth Keen's. And it wasn't his wife and daughter's blood he found splattered so liberally across the floor; it was  _Liz's_  blood. Apparently, his little run-in with Tom Keen had triggered some serious PTSD, and he just couldn't shake it.

It had been two months and eleven days since he'd left her there that night (not that he was keeping track, mind you).

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he extracted a small photograph. It was faded and creased from frequent handling, and was the only thing he'd taken from the warehouse that day that hadn't ended up in a burn barrel. The photo was of Liz the day she'd graduated from the academy. Her smile was all teeth, and he'd scarcely seen her looking so happy. What he wouldn't give to see that smile again…

At first, he'd simply wanted to give her some space (after all, absence makes the heart grow fonder—or so they say). Then, after the nightmares wouldn't stop, he realized that  _he_  was the one who needed space. He had no idea how he'd allowed himself to get in this deep, to the point where Lizzie had replaced his own family in his subconscious. After all, he had spent  _years_  mourning his wife and daughter. They were what sent him down this road in the first place, and now...now he felt as if he'd gotten completely sidetracked.

On the other hand, perhaps this is how it was meant to be all along: the two of them, peeling back one another's layers, unraveling each other's pasts, both willing participants in a game that was unlikely to end well. He was willing to die for her...was she willing to do the same for him?

Perhaps it was time to find out.

_To be continued._


	3. The Reunion

"Come on, you  _have_  to." Liz giggled as she polished off her third beer, setting it down with a sharp thud. "That was our deal.  _I'm_ the one who took down our guy, now it's  _your_ turn to do karaoke."

"Now hold on a minute. This isn't fair. I'm the one who found that bogus transaction on his bank statement."

"No," she corrected, " _Aram_  found that."

"Yeah, right, and then I...I  _expertly_  deduced his motive and probable location based on it."

"And that's right where  _I_  put the cuffs on him." Liz grinned. "I'll let you pick the song this time."

"Yeah alright, you just...you just prepared to be wowed, Elizabeth Keen. Because I'm going to bring this house  _down_."

Liz snorted as her friend and colleague stood and tipped back the last of his beer. "Watch and learn," he said, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed blonde hair. He would have quite an audience, as the bar seemed more crowded than usual tonight. As he walked away toward the makeshift stage, Liz could feel his phone vibrate against the wood surface of the bar.

"Wait, Ressler! Your phone's ringing." She tossed it to him.

"Ha! Saved by the bell." He looked at the screen; the number was unfamiliar. "I'll be right back."

"You'd better be," she teased. "Your fans are waiting." She smiled to herself. Over the past couple of months the two of them had developed a sort of relaxed, easy friendship, and although they had yet to spend time together outside of a bar on a weeknight, Liz was mulling the idea of asking him to breakfast sometime. Maybe even on a Saturday. (On the other hand, did she really want this to become something serious? More often than not, he felt like nothing more than an annoying older brother—one that she loved dearly, but also wanted to smack upside the head most of the time.)

Ressler stepped out into the crisp night air, tugging at the collar of his jacket as he held the phone to his ear. "Ressler," he said gruffly.

"Donald!" the caller responded cheerfully. "Did you miss me?"

He furrowed his brow. "Who is this?"

"It's Raymond Reddington. I have something for you."

* * *

"You'll  _never_  guess who that was," Ressler said as he rejoined Liz at the bar.

"Hmmm," she mused, "it wouldn't happen to be that cute red-haired girl I gave your number to last week, would it?"

"No… wait, you did  _what_?"

"Oh come on, don't pretend you didn't notice her ogling you all night. I told her I was your sister and—"

"It was Reddington," Ressler cut in, his expression serious.

Liz's breath caught in her chest, a shiver creeping down her spine. "What?"

"Says he has something for us...probably another blacklister. He wanted me to ask you if you'd come along to meet him tomorrow morning at nine. Here's the address…" he held up his phone so she could see the map. "Actually, I'll just text it to you. Not sure why he didn't talk to you himself...you two have a little spat or something?"

Liz sighed. "Something like that." She twisted off her wedding ring and turned it over and over in the palm of her hand, something she'd taken to doing a lot lately whenever she was lost in thought.

Ressler frowned, taking in her sudden change in demeanor. "Maybe we should call it a night, eh?"

"Yeah," she said warily. "You and I both know that tomorrow could be a  _very_ long day."

* * *

_How does he find these places?_ Liz thought as she and Ressler pulled up in front of what appeared to be an abandoned auto repair place in yet another remote, industrialized area of the city. Dembe greeted them with little more than a nod as he led them to a set of stairs descending into the basement. Ressler headed down first; just as Liz was about to follow she felt Dembe's hand brush lightly against the small of her back.

"It's good to see you Elizabeth," he said quietly before taking a step back, his expression quickly returning to its usual stoicism. She flashed him a brief smile, allowing herself to wonder for a moment about what exactly Red had done to gain such unswerving loyalty.

"Agent Ressler!" Red exclaimed, his voice jovial. "It's been  _far_ too long." He opened his arms as if to invite an embrace, which Ressler carefully avoided. The room was lit by banks of fluorescent lights, many of which were either burnt out or flickering ominously. The walls were plastered with layers of graffiti, as well as a number of empty metal shelving units and wooden workbenches that were probably covered in car parts and jugs of motor oil at one point in time.

"You wanna tell me where you've been the past two months?" Ressler cocked an eyebrow.

"Not really." Red smiled. His eyes flicked to the staircase where Liz's black pumps had just come into view. He stared as the rest of her followed, nearly forgetting to breathe, his face betraying an eagerness similar to the day they first met.

She tried her best not to smile at him, or show any emotion at all, really. After all, this was a business meeting between law enforcement and an informant—nothing more.

"Agent Keen, I'm glad you could make it," he said calmly.

Something stirred to his left; Liz was surprised to see Aram sitting cross-legged on one of the wooden workbenches lining the south side of the room. He seemed relaxed as he leaned against the wall, apparently waiting to be called on.

"Aram? What are you doing here?" she asked, ignoring Red's greeting.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Red cut him off. "I asked Aram to come a little early and lend his technological expertise. I'm really not good at explaining these sorts of things," he said with a chuckle. "Why don't you tell them about their next target, Aram?"

"Sure," Aram said, hopping to the floor. "So. From what Mr. Reddington has told me, our next guy is fairly new to the scene. He's young, probably in his early 20s, and specializes in biometrics."

"So that's like...retina scans, palm prints, that type of stuff, right?" Ressler asked.

"Yes, exactly. But this guy, he's sort of old school—he's only interested in fingerprints. He can take a fingerprint from anywhere and make a three-dimensional representation of it using a modeling program he wrote himself. He then runs that data through a consumer-grade 3D printer and, quite literally,  _prints_  fingers." Aram reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a neatly severed human finger.

"I managed to get ahold of a prototype," Red explained as Aram passed the finger to Liz. There was really no need to tell them that he'd swiped it from the pocket of a man he'd recently executed...

Liz made a face. "This feels like real skin," she said, passing it to Ressler who immediately grimaced.

"That's the thing…I can't figure out what materials he used until we bring it back to the lab and test it. But it works...it actually works."

"Wait," Ressler said, holding up the fake finger. "This is someone's actual fingerprint? Whose?"

"Greg Patterson," Red offered. He sounded bored. "He's a low-level NSA desk jockey, a fairly benign target if you ask me."

"That's why we think this one is just an early prototype. Once I got a hit on the fingerprint, I was able to use it to gain basic access to NSA's private database," Aram said.

"Think of it this way," Red began. "Before this guy came on the scene, criminals had to go around sawing people's fingers off. It was sloppy, and messy, and just... _really_  inconvenient." He paused when he noticed everyone's mouth hanging open. "Oh  _please_ , and ruin a completely good pair of Italian lambskin cashmere gloves? I'd  _hire someone_." There it was: that infuriating nonchalance. It really was chilling how casually he could speak of such "light" topics as death and dismemberment.

Aram slowly tore his eyes away from Red, turning to face Liz and Ressler. "...so anyway, if you think about some of these recent password breaches, where millions of customer records have been exposed by hackers… you know that if that happens to you, you just need to cancel your credit card and change your password. But what happens when your fingerprint is released to the general public? Mass-produced, mass-distributed. Then what?"

"You can't change your fingerprint," Liz pointed out.

"Exactly." Aram shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped to the side, aware that his part in this meeting was more or less done.

"Alright, so where do we find this guy...this Fingerprinter? Do you know him?" Ressler asked.

"I've never seen him, but I'd recognize the buyer he's meeting tonight aboard the  _Cherry Blossom_ ," Red said.

"The  _Cherry Blossom_?" Liz asked, addressing him directly for the first time.

"Yes, Agent Keen. If you want the best moonlight dinner cruise on the Potomac, you're going to want to go with the  _Cherry Blossom_ ," he explained. "They're having a black tie gala there tonight—there will be dinner, and dancing...oh, and they're bringing in a  _superb_  jazz quintet from Brooklyn…"

"Sounds wonderful," Ressler interjected, crossing his arms. Talking to Reddington always made him so damn  _grumpy_. "And let me guess, you need a date?"

Red smirked. "You know Donald, I don't usually go for blondes, but for you I might be willing to make an exception." He batted his eyelashes for added effect.

Ressler rolled his eyes as he turned to Liz. "A little help here?"

"If you don't want to go, Agent Keen, I'm sure Ms. Malik would be happy to—"

"Oh for God's sake, I'll  _go_ ," Liz said, perhaps a little too angrily. At first she had hated it when he called her "Lizzie." Now when he called her "Agent Keen" it made her want to punch something.

Red smiled. "Excellent, because we're already on the guest list."

"Of course we are." She pursed her lips, once again irritated by his presumptuousness.

"Tell us about the buyer," Ressler said.

"Farid al-Midani. He's Syrian, and like much of the criminal world, he has a keen interest in gaining access to American military intelligence. He'll pay anything to get what our guy can offer him."

"We'll have to run this by Director Cooper," Liz said.

"Of course. Do give Harold my best. And tell him not to worry: a little dinner, a little dancing, and you'll be going home with two bad guys for the price of one. It'll be a piece of cake… or in our case, a piece of decadent blackberry  _cheesecake_ …"

"Alright, alright. We'll get back to you in a couple hours," Ressler started towards the stairwell.

"Dembe will give you my new number. Now if you don't mind, I'd like just a moment alone with Agent Keen."

Ressler shot Liz a questioning glance, to which she responded with a nod and a sigh. He accepted a slip of paper from Dembe as he and Aram headed upstairs to the garage, leaving Liz to fend for herself.

"You  _bastard_ ," she snarled as soon as the door clicked shut. She marched toward Red, fully intending to slap him in the face.

He let her.

Dembe pretended to examine a particularly colorful patch of graffiti as the sound—first of her heels clicking steadily, then of her palm meeting his cheek—echoed off the concrete walls. Red barely flinched, his fierce green eyes locked on hers as her lashes began to glisten with tears.

"I was worried sick," she whispered, throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his tightly around her waist.

"Then I take it you've forgiven me," he spoke against her neck, the vibrations of his voice sending something like fire surging through her veins.

She didn't reply at first, opting instead to press herself more tightly against him. After a moment or two she stepped back, her expression somewhat sheepish. "Is that why you left?"

"Among other reasons...I thought you might benefit from some time away from me."

Oh how wrong he had been. "I kept thinking about that afternoon after Sam's funeral...on the swings? I thought you were just taking advantage of me, so I would open up to you. Then I realized: you were grieving too."

His eyes were sad—whether at the memory of that day, or at her dark appraisal of his motives, she wasn't sure. "I ran into Tom outside the hospital the day he died," he said quietly. "If I hadn't done what I did, I'm convinced that he would have done  _much_  worse."

She nodded, her jaw tightening at the thought of Tom getting anywhere near Sam. "Well then, I'm glad the last thing he saw was the face of a friend." She paused to wipe the tears from her face and attempted to regain her composure. "I...I should really go," she said. "Ressler's waiting." She desperately wanted to stay with him and yet she couldn't bear to look at him, which meant that it was definitely time to leave.

"Lizzie," he called out as she started up the stairs. "What color dress will you be wearing tonight?"

"Uh...I don't know, navy blue?"

"How about green?" His eyes sparkled.

She smiled. "Green it is."

_To be continued_.


	4. Partners

"You look nice," she said casually, leaning against the doorframe of his dressing room, which was really just an unused interrogation room in some back hallway of the Post Office. He had been adjusting his bow tie when he caught her reflection in the mirror, smiling broadly as he turned to drink in her appearance.

"You look... _stunning_ ," he replied, and she did. As per his wishes, she wore an emerald green cocktail dress with a halter-top, the straps crossing in front to create a keyhole between her breasts that held his gaze  _far_ longer than he'd like to admit. The back of the dress was low enough to make him feel a bit weak at the knees and her clutch was a shimmery shade of champagne—just large enough to house her phone, her badge, her Glock and a pair of handcuffs.

Her smile was all teeth, warm and relaxed. She wasn't sure exactly when she became  _this_  comfortable with him, but it was somewhere between the moment he held her hand under the pavilion that sunny afternoon, urging her to trust him, and the moment he dispatched three quick rounds into Tom Keen's low-down double-crossing heart. Somehow, their shared knowledge of the truth of Tom's death had created a bond between them that was stronger than ever, and she imagined that further revelations would only serve to draw them closer. The prospect was both thrilling and terrifying—thrilling, because the analytical, profiler part of her wanted very much to delve deeper into his psyche...terrifying, because the deeper she got, the more she wanted to lose herself in his world, to dissolve with him into the darkness and never look back.

Losing everything sort of does that to a person (hell, he knew that better than anyone).

The plan was incredibly simple. The  _Cherry Blossom_  was hosting a black tie benefit to raise funds for Ewing's sarcoma, a particularly rare and malicious form of juvenile cancer with a shockingly low survival rate. The cruise, which would begin not far from the Washington Monument and stretch as far south as Jones Point Lighthouse, would last three hours from its departure time at eight o'clock sharp. During that time, their only goal was to snap some surveillance photos of the Syrian, Farid al-Midani, meeting with their blacklister, whom they had officially dubbed the Fingerprinter. Liz would text the photos to Ressler, and the FBI would be waiting at port to make arrests when they returned. It really did sound like a piece of cake.

She shivered when he placed his hand against the bare skin of her back, guiding her along the walkway onto the ship.

Moments later, she resisted the urge to smack him when the host greeted them as Mr. and Mrs.  _Keen_.

The  _Cherry Blossom_  had three decks: the first featured a large, luxurious ballroom, the dance floor rimmed by dinner tables; the second was meant primarily for observation and contained a smattering of smaller tables and soft cushioned chairs where guests could sit outside and enjoy conversation under the night sky; and finally, the top deck had been roped off due to renovations and contained several party rooms that could be reserved for special occasions. There were about 450 guests on the list tonight, which meant that it might take them the whole three hours just to  _find_ Farid and the Fingerprinter…

Ever the gentlemen, he pulled out her chair for her before taking a seat himself (Tom had never done that, she noted—not once). After they'd settled down with their dinner menus, she wasted no time in beginning her interrogation; after all, they were going to be stuck together for three hours...if he wanted her to stop asking questions, he'd simply have to kill her.

"Two months and twelve days," she said (not that she'd been keeping track, mind you). "Where did you go?"

He didn't look up. "I'm thinking the togarashi crusted tuna sounds good, what do you think?"

"Stop," she ordered. "None of  _that_ , not tonight. Not when it's just you and me."

He folded his hands together, his expression blank. "None of  _what,_ exactly?"

"You  _know_  what. The constant stalling, the deflections.  _Please_ ," she pleaded. "You can trust me."

He cocked his head to the side, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Can I?"

" _Yes_ ," she said firmly.

He studied her for a moment, mulling it over in his mind. "Barcelona," he said finally. "Then Tallinn, then Moscow." He expected her to follow that up with another round of questions but instead she turned her attention to the menu, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"The tuna  _does_  sound good, but did you see the Chilean sea bass?"

"Now it's my turn," he asserted. "Tell me, how goes the FBI's investigation into the disappearance of Tom Keen?"

Liz sighed. "They've hit a wall, as expected."

"And you?"

"I haven't done much better," she said truthfully. How did he know she'd been doing her own research into her husband's dirty deeds? "One night I tore apart our house, looking for  _anything_  that might tell me  _something_ about who he was, who he worked for. The only thing I found was a key, taped to the bottom of a floor lamp. I have no idea what it goes to."

He nodded thoughtfully, straightening slightly as the waiter approached their table.

She decided on the sherry-glazed scallops; he went with the sea bass. He then proceeded to order a bottle of the most expensive wine on the list, because what the hell—the FBI was paying for everything anyway (and by golly, they were going to have some  _fun_ ).

It wasn't until the waiter returned with their salads and wine, and the pianist from the jazz quintet began playing some soft dinner music that she felt comfortable continuing their conversation.

"My turn. What made you come back?"

He shrugged. "I thought I ought to make good on our deal...offer you a few more villains to play hero with." He swished his wine in the bowl of his glass absent-mindedly, pausing to inhale its sweetness.

She shook her head. "Nope, I'm not buying that. In fact, I don't think this guy is even on your blacklist."

He smiled. "And what makes you say that?"

"Your lack of interest, for one. He's just a small fish to you. And if I recall, Raymond Reddington is only interested in 'the big catches...the ones that really matter'" she paraphrased. "Which brings me back to my question: why come back?"

He had to admit, she really was perceptive. Behind those beautiful blue eyes was an incredibly sharp mind, one that was constantly taking things apart and piecing them back together again until they made more sense than they did before. She was an excellent asset, even if she never became anything more.

"The big fish weren't biting," he conceded. "And I needed to see you."

She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks as she struggled to appear impassive. "You could have just called, you know."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" He took a slow sip of wine, his eyes playful.

"So wait, all of this...was just so you could have dinner with me?" She smiled uncertainly, confused as to whether she should be pleased or annoyed by all of his elaborate orchestrations. When she had implied that he would burn the world down to protect her, he had accused her of being presumptuous. But now...now it seemed like all of this really  _was_  just about her.

"Goodness, no," he said. "I have an extremely vested interest in making sure that Farid al-Midani is either dead or behind bars."

"Oh  _really_ ," she replied, concealing her disappointment with a glare. "And why is that? I thought some of your best friends were Syrian."

He pursed his lips, his thoughts suddenly plagued with doubts. Maybe this was all a big mistake. He hated that he had to play these games with her...hated that he could only give her just enough to keep her wanting more. He needed her to be close to him, but not so close that she became a target. He needed her to care about him, but not so much that she would start to become  _like_  him. It was a delicate dance, and right now he felt as if he had two left feet. Not to mention the fact that what he  _wanted_ , more than anything, was to tell her the truth (the  _whole_  truth, and nothing but the truth).

She could tell something was wrong. She set down her fork loudly, pushing her empty salad plate to the side. "You lied, didn't you," she growled. It wasn't a question. "Why are we really here?"

He sighed, pausing a few moments to gather his thoughts as she stared at him expectantly. "I'm afraid that I may have invited you here under false pretenses, yes. But I've said it before and I'll say it again: I've never lied to you, Lizzie. Farid al-Midani is indeed meeting the Fingerprinter here on this ship tonight, I promise you that."

"Then what's the catch?"

"The catch is in the _nature_  of their exchange. The intel I received has led me to believe that the Fingerprinter isn't interested in Farid's money. He's interested in his services."

"His services?"

"Yes. When our dear friend Farid isn't busy digging for dirt on our involvement in the current conflict in Syria, he moonlights as a run-of-the-mill gun for hire."

"An assassin."

"Yes."

It was a lot to process, but with Red, she knew she just had to roll with it. "Alright, so our guy gives Farid a fingerprint in exchange for someone's head on a platter. Whose?"

Red took another slow sip of his wine, relishing their last few seconds of pleasant conversation.

"Mine."

* * *

She stared at him, her jaw dropping slightly. She was suddenly overcome with the familiar desire to jab something in his neck. A fork would surely do… "You mean to tell me that we are trapped on a  _boat_ in the middle of the Potomac with a Syrian assassin who was just hired to kill you."

"Yes." He smiled. "Didn't I tell you this was going to be fun?"

"I think  _I'm_  going to kill you."

He laughed.

"Yeah, sure, laugh it up. What do you expect me to do, protect you?" It was all she could do to keep from becoming hysterical.

"Oh, I'm  _counting_  on that," he said. "Relax, Lizzie. Even after Farid realizes I'm here, he won't try anything until after dark. We've still got plenty of time to enjoy ourselves before the  _real_ fun begins _._ "

She shook her head. "You really are a piece of work, you know that? You said you didn't even know this guy—"

"I said I'd never  _seen_  him," he corrected.

"Well, you must have done  _something_  to piss him off."

"I...may or may not have killed his father."

"You seriously need to stop doing that," she said without missing a beat. It was sort of a low blow, but she didn't care.

"He was a  _horrible_ man," he said simply, as if that was enough justifying explanation. "You're taking this a lot better than I expected."

"That's because I assume you have a plan." She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

He furrowed his brow. "It's less of a plan and more of a...desired outcome. For instance, if all goes well, there will be two bodies floating in the river tonight, and neither one of them will be ours."

She sighed, unable to stifle the smile that crept across her face. "I swear, this had better be the best damn cheesecake I've ever had in my  _life_ , because I am  _not_  getting paid enough for this."

He laughed. "You won't be disappointed, Lizzie. Now, let's try to have a good time, shall we?"

* * *

**9:46PM**

"How's your swing dancing, Lizzie?" He had to raise his voice to be heard over the band.

She grinned. "I can do a mean pretzel, if that's what you're asking!"

He shrugged out of his jacket before offering her his hand. "Then come on," he said as he pulled her out of her chair, leaning in to whisper in her ear: "I love pretzels." She gave him a playful shove as they stepped onto the dance floor. The band had launched into a pretty fast swing, but they fell easily into the rhythm of the music, Red gauging her skill as they gradually worked their way to the middle of the ballroom. As it turned out, she was pretty good. "Hold on!" he shouted gleefully as he swung her around his side, her dress transforming her into a blur of green as she spun away from him and then towards him again.

"Shouldn't you be trying to be a little less conspicuous?" she yelled breathlessly the next time he brought her close.

"Please trust me, Lizzie, when I say that no one is looking at  _me_ right now."

Sure enough, the dancers around them had given them a rather wide berth, some even stopping to stare at this gorgeous woman and her rather eccentric-looking partner.

When the song ended, there was a smattering of applause, both for them and the band. They stared at each other, faces flushed, skin glistening with sweat.

"I gotta get some water," she said, panting.

"Wait… just one more, please," he begged, grabbing her hand as she turned to walk away. It took her a moment to recognize the opening chords of the song, an old Hoagy Carmichael standard.

Slow dancing with Raymond Reddington sounded dangerous, but what was she going to say? The way he looked at her...it made her feel like the two of them were the only ones in the room. And besides, one more dance with the devil surely wouldn't hurt. She melted into him as they joined hands, their cheeks touching lightly as the pianist began to sing.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me,_

_that thrills and delights me, oh no_

_It's just the nearness of you…_

She exhaled into his neck and felt his shoulders immediately relax. "What if Farid succeeds tonight?" she murmured into his ear.

"He won't," he replied, his voice low and gentle.

"But if he does?"

He sighed as he stepped back to look her in the eyes. "Then I guess the FBI gets what it wants most, doesn't it? One less monster roaming the streets…" He smiled weakly.

"Red…" she felt her throat tighten. She had called him a monster once, and he'd agreed with her. Now...now she wasn't so sure. She wondered if maybe everyone was a monster, in their own way. She certainly felt like one sometimes.

"I'm not afraid of dying, Lizzie. If Farid succeeds here tonight, then I can only be thankful that my last moments were spent with you." He pulled her closer so she wouldn't see the mist gathering in his eyes, smiling when she gave his hand a soft squeeze.

He had promised Sam that he would love her.

It was both the easiest and the hardest promise he'd ever had to keep.

_I need no soft lights to enchant me,_

_if you'll only grant me the right, to hold you ever so tight,_

_and to feel in the night, the nearness of you._

She wondered if he could feel her heart beating as the final notes decayed into silence. He drew back only slightly, leaving no more than a couple inches between them, his gaze dropping instinctively to her lips. She closed her eyes automatically as he leaned closer...

"I...I can't. I can't do this," she said suddenly. "I need air." Breaking away from him, she strode quickly off the dance floor, snatching her clutch from their table and making a hasty exit out the nearest door.

" _Lizzie!_ " he called after her, but she ignored him.

Once outside, she headed straight up the stairs to the second deck, where she was annoyed to find several happy couples kissing and laughing as they looked out over the water. After a few minutes of searching she finally found a deserted spot a little farther toward the back of the ship and leaned against the railing, attempting to catch her breath. It was dark now, save for the white Christmas lights strung along the sides of the boat and the soft glow of the city reflecting off the bottoms of the clouds. She checked her phone; it was after ten o'clock. If Farid was going to make a move tonight, it was going to be soon. A wave of guilt washed over her; she really shouldn't have left Red alone…

She tried to process what had just happened, going over every detail in her mind. How long had he been waiting to kiss her? Was all of this just part of his big master plan, to manipulate her into falling in love with him? And wait...did she just say  _love_? Suddenly she felt a little seasick…

With all the noise going on in her head, she didn't hear the quiet footsteps behind her...didn't have time to react when she felt the cold steel press into the skin of her back.

"Hello Mrs. Reddington," came a voice behind her, low and smooth, with only slight traces of a Middle-Eastern accent. "First I must warn you that if you scream, I will be forced to kill you."

She sucked air through her teeth as her body tensed.

"Good evening, Farid," she said calmly, not bothering to correct him.

"Ah, I see your husband has told you about me. I hope you won't believe everything you've heard...I'd hate for us to get off to a bad start, eh?" (Well  _that_  was a threat if she'd ever heard one) "Now if you'd drop your bag please, we're going to take a little walk."

She dropped her clutch obediently, watching warily as he kicked it under the railing, sending it tumbling toward the river below. Jabbing his gun harder into her back, he steered her toward the third deck stairs.

"Ok now, up we go…"

 _To be continued_.

 


	5. The Plunge

It all happened so fast.

At least, that's what she'd say when she was asked to give her final report. What else  _could_  she say? The decisions she'd made that night weren't even rooted in normal human reason, let alone FBI protocol. No version of the truth she could give could prevent her from getting  _at least_  two weeks suspension, so she might as well own up to all of it.

But where to start? First...first she remembered Farid, nudging her along the port side of the ship toward the stern, navigating between rolls of old carpet and stacks of weathered wooden trim—artifacts of the ongoing third deck renovation. She remembered trying to make conversation in hopes of humanizing herself in his eyes…

"Whatever you're getting paid, I can double it," she offered as he pushed her down onto a nearby crate.

"I doubt that," Farid said, smiling.

"Try me."

Reaching into his pocket, he produced one of the Fingerprinter's rubbery synthetic fingers, twisting it between his forefinger and thumb like a prized diamond. "I don't suppose you can make one of these?"

"What  _is_  that?" she asked, feigning curiosity.

"This," Farid announced proudly, "is a key. A key to the free flow of American military intelligence, from your servers to ours."

Liz shook her head. "I don't understand...if you already have what you want, why kill me? Why not just walk away?"

"Because I am a man of my word, and my client knows that. Besides, it's not you that I am after, my dear. It's your husband." He casually unbuttoned his dress shirt at the cuffs and rolled up his sleeves—another subtle threat.

"Yeah, well my  _husband_  isn't going to just waltz up here and let you shoot him in the head."

"Oh, I think he will," he said thoughtfully. "I couldn't help but notice the way he looks at you. Tell me, how long have you been married?"

"Long enough for me to know that the only person who's going to die tonight is  _you._ "

He grinned. From what she could tell in the dark, he was probably in his late-30s—thin and wiry, but strong. He had light olive skin and his long, black hair was drawn back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. She knew she wasn't going to be able to talk her way out of this one; she was either going to have to fight him, or wait for Red to come rescue her.

Honestly, she'd never been good at waiting.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the darkness, drawing Farid's attention for a few precious seconds—long enough for her to jam her heel into the top of his foot as she lunged for the gun, knocking both of them to the ground. Lying on his back, he pulled her into a choke hold against his chest, prompting her to dig her fingernails into his arm until she could feel warm blood ooze over her fingertips. He cried out but didn't let go; gasping for air, she twisted in his arms and kicked down with her heel, hitting him square between the legs. He released his grip and she flipped over, punching him hard in the face. As he kicked and struggled to get out from beneath her, she grabbed the gun with both hands, attempting to pry it from his grasp...

She hadn't even seen Red come up the stairs. Hadn't heard his heavy steps as he thundered down the side of the ship towards them, or his voice as he called out her name...

No, all she remembered was feeling Farid's hand squeeze beneath hers, the bullet screaming from its chamber...

...the soft  _thump_  of Red's body as he crumpled against the side railing, a dark stain emanating from his right shoulder.

It was all she needed to see—overtaken by a surge of adrenaline and blinded with rage, she took hold of Farid's collar and smashed his head into the railing, causing the gun to slip out of his hand. Snatching it, she shot him quickly—not a tight grouping in the chest as she'd been taught, but one bullet, straight to the head, execution-style. She'd never killed anyone like that before.

She rushed to Red's side, dropping the gun next to Farid's body. Red had forced himself into a sitting position, groaning as he pressed his left hand against the wound.

"I'm alright," he rasped. He coughed, sending a fresh stream of blood gushing between his fingers. With that rate of blood loss, she knew he wouldn't be able to maintain consciousness for long.

"Hang on, I'm going to go get help."

He nodded weakly. His eyes were full of uncertainty, and for some reason she found that extremely unnerving.

"I don't think so," came a soft voice from behind her. She froze. "Step away from him," the man ordered, his voice low and even.

She held up her hands, turning slowly to face their new opponent. " _You_...you must be the Fingerprinter."

"I said  _step away from him_ ," he repeated, moving closer. He certainly fit the profile—no more than 25 years old, trim and fit, with short blonde hair that bore an eerie resemblance to that of her favorite drinking buddy.

He must have picked up Farid's gun from where she'd left it. She stood up and took several steps back.

"Come on, Reddington," he muttered, taking Red by his good arm and jerking him to his feet. "Let's finish this."

* * *

"Dorito?" Ressler asked, holding out the bag of chips. Meera didn't respond, her eyes glued to her laptop. Her face was drawn tight in concentration.

He sighed as he stretched in his seat, searching in vain for a more comfortable position. They'd been sitting in one of the FBI's trademark black SUVs for nearly three hours, waiting to hear from Liz. He looked out the window into the night, wondering what her and Reddington were up to. What did they even  _talk_  about, anyway?

"Something's wrong," Meera said, her voice tense.

"What is it?" He leaned over to look at the screen, stuffing his now empty chip bag into the cup holder between them.

"Liz's phone. I've been tracking it since they left...it's stopped moving."

"Maybe the boat stopped moving."

"I don't think so…can you call Dunnigan?"

"Yeah." He dialed Richard Dunnigan, one of the agents that had been following the ship from land. "Hey Richard, you got eyes on the _Cherry Blossom_?"

Meera could hear the man's muffled response; apparently, the ship was only a few miles downstream from its starting point at Pier 4. "That means the ship should be about here," she pointed at the map on her screen, "and Liz's phone is showing all the way back here..."

Ressler clenched his jaw as he started the car. "Richard, we think something may have happened to Agent Keen. Tell the others that Meera and I are heading across the river."

* * *

"You don't have to do this," Liz pleaded as the Fingerprinter yanked Red toward the tip of the stern.

"Oh yes I do. I've waited 14 years to kill this bastard," he said, pressing the gun to Red's temple. There was a nervous edge to his voice—clearly, he had no experience as a killer (hell, he was practically just a kid). Red fixed his eyes on Liz, who refused to look at him. She couldn't bear it...couldn't bear to see the message she would undoubtedly find etched across his face:  _Get out of here. Leave me. Save yourself_.

"I was  _nine years old_ ," he continued. "My father was a grocery store manager. A  _grocery store manager._  What did he ever do to you, huh?!" he yelled suddenly, knocking Red's injured arm into the railing. Red winced, closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the pain.

Liz bit her lip. It was time to start lying, big time. "Raymond Reddington works for the FBI," she said, trying her best to sound calm. "He's spent his entire  _career_ trying to rid the world of scum like you. If he killed your father, it was because he was much more than a grocery store manager."

He laughed. "That's  _bullshit_  and you know it."

"Look, if you don't wanna believe me, that's fine. But just know that if you kill him, then you're no better than he is."

That seemed to throw him off. "What, ah...what do you mean?" He shifted his weight between his feet uneasily. "You mean you two...you have kids?"

 _Bingo._  She rested a hand lightly on her belly. "We just found out last week."

He shook his head. "Nope, you're lying."

"Am I? How can you be sure?"

"I—" he stuttered.

"Listen to me.  _He_  is a good man," she said, gesturing to Red. "And  _you_...you are  _not_  a killer. Let him go and we can talk. Maybe you could come work for us. The FBI could use someone with such an extensive knowledge of biometrics."

"No!" he cried, shaking his head as his face became wet with tears. "I can't. This...this is all there is for me." He glanced over his shoulder at the water below, and when he turned and met her eyes it was obvious he had made a decision. "If you really believe that he's a good man, then go ahead. Save him."

With that, he rammed the butt of the gun into the back of Red's head, knocking him unconscious. She screamed as he lifted Red's body from the waist, pushing him up over the top of the railing and sending him careening like a limp ragdoll toward the river below. The last thing she remembered was kicking off her shoes as she raced toward the edge...

The next thing she knew, she had hit the river bottom, her legs slamming hard into the rocks (as it turned out, the Potomac wasn't especially deep). It took her a moment to orient herself as she splashed toward the spot where she assumed Red had fallen. The water was frigid; it was only mid-May and the east coast had had the distinct pleasure of one final snowstorm only a few weeks earlier.

His white shirt and vest made him easy to spot in the murky glow of the ship's lights. Looping her arms beneath his, she did her best to keep his head above the water as she dragged him slowly to the shore, fighting hard against the current. When they reached the bank she checked his pulse—it was faint, but present.

He wasn't breathing.

Laying him down gently, she tipped his head back and pinched his nostrils shut. She had learned CPR in high school, and again in college, and again in her training to be a field agent. In that sense, she was more than adequately prepared for this very occasion.

However, nothing in the entirety of the universe could have prepared her for the way she felt when, leaning over the lifeless body of the FBI's Fourth Most Wanted Criminal, she bent forward and touched her lips to Raymond Reddington's. For a moment, she forgot that  _she_  was supposed to be the one breathing.

But no. No no no no no. _Focus, Liz._  Thirty chest compressions. Two deep breaths. Thirty more chest compressions. "Dammit come on!" she muttered as she breathed life into his lungs once more. Eleven more chest compressions and then—a gasp, a sputter, and Red was back in business. Liz leaned back and wiped her brow, giving him room to cough and flail and whatever else he needed to do. Suddenly she realized that she could barely see his face in the blackness and that she should probably identify herself.

"Hey! Hey, it's just me."

He cried out as an attempt to sit up and expel more water from his lungs resulted in blinding pain searing through his shoulder. "Ugh," he groaned. "Why do I feel like I've been shot?"

"Because you  _were_  shot. Lie still." She loosened his bow tie and began tearing his vest open, followed by his shirt until she felt cold, clammy skin. She pressed her right hand against his chest, willing him to stay in place, and used her left to search for the bullet wound.

"You know, if you wanted to rip my clothes off Lizzie, all you had to do was ask."

She rolled her eyes, though she knew he couldn't see them. "Yeah, well, if you wanted to kiss me you didn't have to get yourself thrown off a boat."

Her response was met with a chuckle, then a cough, then a series of coughs. "Didn't I?" he choked out between episodes. Liz ignored him, squinting...if only she could  _see_.  _There_. Her fingers met with a deep pool of warm blood. Red shuddered. As if reading her mind, he rolled slightly to the left so that she could slide her hand around his back.

"Lucky for you it's through and through." She pressed her palm firmly against the entry wound and sighed. "We have to make it to the road, it's your only chance...you don't think you can walk, do you? I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Then I guess I don't have a choice, do I?" And then, "Really Lizzie, I'll be fine. Probably better than you from the looks of it." Either their eyes had rapidly adjusted to the darkness or the moon was finally peeking through the clouds; as Red gestured to her bare feet, Liz became increasingly aware of the way her dress clung to her body. It left little to the imagination, really. However Red, ever the gentlemen, said nothing (much to her relief).

She stretched out his bow tie and, looping it beneath his arm, knotted it tightly around the wound. She watched uneasily as it became quickly saturated with blood. "We're going to have to hurry," she said, feeling for his good hand to help him to his feet. Together they made their way up the bank and into a cluster of trees. The pine needles were soft under Liz's feet (the pinecones not so much), and as the minutes passed in silence she became more and more aware of Red's labored breathing.

She moved close to him, wrapping an arm around his waist for added support. "Hey, you're gonna be ok. We're almost to the road. You're ok," she said softly. Red said nothing, and it was obvious that he was pouring everything he had into simply remaining upright.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they came to a narrow street running parallel to the river. And, as luck would have it, they had emerged from the trees just south of where Ressler and Meera had skidded to a stop. Liz broke into a jog when the black SUV came into view, rapping her bloody knuckles against the driver's side window. Her face was met with the barrel of Ressler's gun.

"Liz? What the hell happened? We lost your phone's signal."

"It's in the river. Listen—Reddington's hurt. Gunshot to the shoulder. We need to get him to a hospital  _now_." She opened the side door as Ressler hopped out to assist Red, who was now mostly incoherent. Once they got him situated in the middle seat, Liz slid in next to him. "Hurry, he's going into shock," she urged as Ressler put the car into gear. She grabbed her FBI jacket from the backseat and draped it over Red, pulling him towards her so that his head rested in her lap.

"Where's the Fingerprinter?" Ressler asked.

"I don't know...he was still on board when we jumped ship. He's armed. Farid al-Midani is dead though."

"And the fingerprint?"

"Gone. Into the river, I think." She was surprised at how easily the lie rolled off her tongue.

"Well, I suppose that's good at least," Meera said.

"So what happened in there, Keen?"

She didn't respond. Actually, she hadn't even heard the question. She ran her hand gently over Red's scalp, smoothing down his short brown hair and pausing every now and then to check his pulse. She pressed her other hand against his shoulder, well aware that her efforts were futile and that his exit wound was likely bleeding all over the seat next to her. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to touch her lips to his forehead, to tell him that she'd be there when he woke up.

His eyes fluttered open briefly, just long enough to catch a glimpse of her face under the light of a passing street lamp. A hint of a smile played about his lips before he finally passed out for good.

She heard Meera speaking to someone at the emergency room, no doubt giving them a head's up. "...yes, we've got a 54-year-old male, GSW to the right shoulder, possible concussion. He's a fugitive so we'll need high security. We also have a female agent who's pretty banged up, multiple cuts and contusions."

 _Wait, what?_  Liz thought. She bent forward to examine her legs, recoiling when she saw that they were practically shredded raw from the stones at the bottom of the river.

There were four EMTs waiting for them when they arrived at the hospital. Three of them lifted Red onto a stretcher as the fourth offered Liz his hand. "Agent Keen? My name is Riley. Let's get you dried off and bandaged up."

She would never forget how she felt as she stood shivering in the middle of the emergency room lobby, staring after Red as they carted him through the leftmost pair of double doors. The last thing she heard before they disappeared around a corner was someone yell "BP is dropping. Somebody get a crash cart over here!" Rooted to the spot, she became gradually aware of the mess she was making...a rather large puddle of water and blood had begun to collect around her bare feet.

" _Agent Keen_ ," Riley said for the third time. "Come on, we need to go this way." He gestured to a pair of double doors leading to the right. Reluctantly she followed, the promise of warm, dry clothes and clean wounds doing nothing to assuage the feeling of dread collecting in the pit of her stomach. She knew that there were two truths she had to process before she could even begin to function:

The first, that she was in love with Raymond Reddington.

The second, that Raymond Reddington could very well die tonight.

_To be continued._


	6. Waiting

"He's stable now; they just took him into surgery," Ressler said as he slipped into the driver's seat. "They seem pretty hopeful they can save his arm."

"His  _arm_?" Liz asked, a note of panic in her voice. She had assumed he would need surgery in order to repair the damage done by Farid's bullet, but it hadn't even occurred to her that he might lose a  _limb_...

"Yeah. Let me tell you, getting shot in the shoulder is no picnic. It's not like you see in the movies."

She swallowed hard, squeezing her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could pretend that none of this ever happened...that the man she loved hadn't nearly flatlined twice, that her shins didn't feel like they were on fire beneath her loose, hospital-issued scrubs, that her best friend hadn't seen  _way_ more of her body than she ever intended him to...that in fact, it had all just been one long horrible dream.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Ressler said, pulling her from her thoughts. "Aram set this up for you." He fished around in his pocket for a moment before producing a sleek new smartphone. She immediately opened up the contacts, eager to enter the new number for "Nick's Pizza" before it escaped her memory. She knew Dembe was in possession of Red's phone and wondered idly if he would answer if she called.

"You put yourself as my first speed dial," she commented, her lips drawing into a half-smile.

"Yeah, well it was either me or Domino's...I wasn't sure who you called more," he grinned, but she wasn't listening.

She sat forward in her seat suddenly, reaching out to touch the dashboard in front of her. "Wait a minute. Stop! You have to stop. We have to go back," she said frantically.

His foot moved instinctively to the brake. "What? Why?"

"I have to give the hospital this number. Ressler, I  _need_  to know if he...if he…" she trailed off, practically hyperventilating.

"Relax, Liz. I already gave it to them. I figured you should be the first to find out if something...happened." He paused as she turned to look out the window, obviously struggling to regain her composure. "Listen, can I ask you something?"

She nodded silently, her lips pulled tight and her jaw set. She couldn't cry—not now, not in front of him.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Save him."

She exhaled slowly, folding her hands together in her lap. "It's complicated."

"Okay, so uncomplicate it for me. Liz, you jumped off the top deck of a cruise ship into five feet of water. You could have broken your legs, or snapped your neck, or...or  _drowned_. So tell me, is he...are you two...are you related or something? Is he family?"

"No!" she said quickly. "He's just…" she sighed, her gaze dropping to her drab gray hospital slippers. "Right now, he's all I have."

He looked away, unprepared for how sharply her words stung. Sure, he knew she didn't think of him as anything more than a friend, but a friend counts for  _something_ , right? She wasn't alone— _she had him_. He let his head fall back against the headrest, his eyes fixed warily on the road in front of him. A few seconds passed before she realized what she'd said.

"Hey, I only meant…"

"No, it's alright. I understand, I really do. Just...be  _careful_ , okay? I'm not trying to tell you what to do, I'm just speaking from my own experience... for the longest time, he was all I had too."

She stared at him.  _Of course_. He had been on Reddington's case long before she ever knew the man existed. He'd let himself get in too deep, and now he was worried that she was doing the same.

_Oh Donald. If only you knew._

* * *

It was nearly one o'clock when he dropped her off at the Post Office, where she retrieved her purse and the clothes she had worn to work that day. The night guard eyed her suspiciously as she made her way back out to the parking lot and bid Ressler good night, slumping clumsily into the seat of her car as the effects of the night's adrenaline rush finally began to fade. All at once she felt dizzy and drowsy and achy all over, longing desperately for her soft bed and the feeling of cool sheets against her tortured skin. She didn't allow herself a single thought about Red until she made it home safely, dropping her keys on the coffee table and falling face-first onto the couch, her new cell phone still clutched tightly in one hand.

But no, she couldn't sleep—not yet. Not until she contacted Dembe. She pulled the phone close to her face, her eyes bleary and her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. She bit her lip, wondering what to do. After all, she and Dembe had no protocol to follow, no code names or safe words or anything. Hell, they had only really spoken once—a scintillating conversation about the paint color of her kitchen walls.

Actually, that gave her an idea. She dashed off a brief text message:  _Call me ASAP. - Chicago Skyline_. She hoped he would remember that afternoon as clearly as she did…

Seconds later, she nearly had a heart attack when the phone began to vibrate in her hand.

"Hello?" she said tentatively.

"Elizabeth. What happened?"

"Red was shot. He's in surgery at GWU...and...and I don't know. It doesn't sound good."

Dembe was quiet for a moment. "Where are you?"

"I'm at home."

"Are you hurt?"

"Just some cuts and scrapes." She paused, hoping she was making the right decision. "Would you mind...coming over?"

"I'll be right there."

"Oh, and bring his things, please…" She wasn't sure if he'd heard her before he hung up. All she knew was that if Red pulled through this, she wanted him to stay with her, at least for a little while.

She pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, closing her eyes as her thoughts wandered once again to her dance with Red and their almost-kiss. The smell of his cologne had been intoxicating...not to mention the heat of his skin against her cheek... but maybe...maybe it was nothing. Maybe she had simply let her loneliness get the better of her. (It was a lie that she'd make herself believe, at least a little while longer.)

She leapt off the couch when she heard a soft knock at the front door, swinging it open to a very tired-looking Dembe, Red's suitcases and garment bags in tow. " _Dembe_ ," she said weakly. She was starting to crumble, and he knew it. He dropped everything in the foyer as she fell abruptly into his arms, her body wracked with sobs, every emotion she'd worked so hard to conceal bubbling to the surface as she grasped fistfuls of his tight black t-shirt.

He responded in kind, his muscular arms forming a warm, protective ring around her waist as he gently rubbed her back in slow, calming circles. "It's going to be okay," he said firmly, as if trying to convince himself as well. They stood for a long time in silence until her sobs were reduced to nothing more than quiet whimpers, punctuated by occasional sniffles and deep sighs. Scooping her delicately off her feet, he carried her upstairs and laid her softly in bed.

* * *

She was shaken awake by the angry buzz of her phone against the surface of her bedside table. The clock read 3:16am, which could only mean one thing: the hospital was calling.

"Hello?"

"Yes, is this Mrs. Keen?"

"Yes."

"Hi, this is Megan calling from George Washington University hospital. You're listed as the contact for Raymond Reddington?"

"That's correct. Is he… is he ok?"

"He's going to be fine ma'am. Dr. Matthews was able to repair the blood vessels in his shoulder and cauterize that main artery bleed. We'll have him under sedation for the next few hours, but he should be awake tomorrow morning if you need to talk to him."

Liz was confused for a moment before she remembered that the rest of the world saw Reddington as nothing more than a criminal, and that the hospital staff probably assumed the FBI would want him awake for questioning as soon as possible.

"That's...that's great. Thank you so much," she said, ending the call and sinking back into her pillow, a tidal wave of relief washing over her.  _Thank God._  He was alive. He was going to be okay.

She jumped when Dembe spoke—evidently, he'd fallen asleep in the chair in the corner of the room. "How is he?"

"He made it through surgery. I'm going to go over and check on him first thing in the morning." Technically, it was already the morning, but he knew what she meant. She searched for his brown eyes in the darkness. "I didn't get the chance to thank you...for staying with me tonight," she said, feeling somewhat embarrassed for her earlier meltdown.

"It's what Raymond would want me to do," he replied simply.

She nodded. "Please...the guest room is across the hall. It's all yours."

"Thank you," he said as he made his way out of the room, closing the door lightly behind him.

* * *

**8:15am, George Washington University Hospital**

He had a sense that she was with him before he opened his eyes, the way people can sometimes tell that their favorite song is playing on the radio before they even tune in to the station. He was aware that he was at the hospital, but had no idea how much time had passed, nor the nature and extent of his injuries—only that she was there, which meant she was  _alive_ , and that was all that mattered.

She sat up when she heard him stir, edging her chair closer to his bed as his eyes drifted open and shut again. Soft rays of sunlight peeked between the slats of the window blinds, creating stripes across his midsection and radiating warmth across the back of her neck and shoulders. His right arm was in a sling, and he had an IV running into his left arm, no doubt pumping him full of morphine as he slept.

"Hey," she said quietly as she smoothed her fingers over the top of his hand, stroking his skin gently with her thumb.

He opened his eyes again and smiled. "Agent Keen," he croaked, his voice hoarse.

" _Agent Keen_?  _Really_?" She raised her eyebrows as she took a plastic cup of water from the table next to his bed and tilted it against his lips. He downed it quickly and motioned for another, requiring two more refills before he could clear his throat well enough to speak.

"These bedside intercoms are a marvelous invention, are they not? All I have to do is press a button and state my complaint, and someone is at my side within  _seconds_." He used his eyes to communicate the rest:  _The trouble is, you never know who might be listening._

He was right. She wouldn't put it past the FBI to monitor their conversation. Cooper was on the warpath this morning; though it was scarcely eight o'clock, she'd already been summoned to the Post Office to give her statement and receive her punishment: a three week suspension without pay and the pleasure of undergoing a formal investigation into what had happened aboard the  _Cherry Blossom_. Apparently, the agency didn't look too kindly upon endangering the lives of hundreds of civilians for the sake of rescuing an informant—even one as prized as Raymond Reddington.

"So tell me," he continued. "How did we do?"

"According to your criteria? Not so good. There were two bodies in the river last night, and  _both_ of them were ours."

He chuckled. "Well, in my experience, things rarely go according to plan." His eyes sparkled as he looked her over, searching intently for any signs of injury.

She shifted in her seat, her aching muscles making it impossible to stay in any one position for very long. "Don't you want to know what the headline is going to read?"

"Let me guess: 'Murder-Suicide Aboard Washington Cruise Ship Raises More Questions Than Answers.'"

"Wait, you knew the Fingerprinter would kill himself?"

"I assumed. That's just the nature of revenge, Agent Keen. When it's over, the only thing left for it to destroy is you."

She let that sink in, her thoughts returning briefly to her fight with Farid. Killing him had obviously been an act of self-defense, but choosing to blow his brains out? There was no question: that had definitely been about revenge. She swallowed uncomfortably.

"His name was Marshall Clark. He was only 23 years old." For some reason, whenever everything felt like it was spiraling out of her control, it always felt good to just state some facts. She dropped her gaze to his forearm, her eyes roaming slowly over his cuts and bruises. Her lip trembled. "I... _we_...almost lost you."

He said nothing as their eyes engaged in silent conversation.  _Yes. I know. I'm sorry._

She took a deep breath. "The bullet nicked your subclavian artery. They were able to repair the damage to your blood vessels, but not before you coded twice and nearly lost your arm. From what I've been reading, you're looking at nine months recovery, and that's only with physical therapy…" Facts. Cold, hard facts. They were the only thing keeping her from disintegrating right in front of him.

"Ah, that won't do. I think we both know I won't be spending another night in this hospital."

"I know. That's why I've already arranged to take you to a safe house this evening. The nurses aren't happy, but I have instructions for replacing your bandages and making sure you get plenty of sleep. And of a lot of these as well…" she withdrew a bottle of pills from her purse.

Red laughed. "These people never cease to amaze me. Here I am, a known associate of some of the most...  _notorious_ and prolific drug dealers on the planet and they're giving me  _Tramadol_? Honestly, what a waste…"

"Yeah, well if you don't want them, I'll take them. All I got was a bottle of ibuprofen and a lollipop."

He smiled. "The safe house. Where is it?"

"8122 12th street." It was her address, and she knew he would recognize it. "Dembe is already there with your things." It didn't bother her at all, the idea that Dembe was currently lounging around her house. She had fixed him eggs and toast that morning and told him to make himself at home...she imagined that he was probably watching TV, or appreciating her choice of paint color in the upstairs bathroom…

"And Harold approved that?" It seemed odd that Director Cooper would place her in "time out" and then proceed to put her in charge of the man she was most likely conspiring with…

"Even though he doesn't trust either one of us right now, he knows this is the best way to keep you close."

He nodded. Truthfully, he was looking forward to being able to speak with her in private, especially after their little display on the dance floor. The moment she ran away from him, the ball was in her court, but now...now that she'd saved his life, he felt it was again his turn to make a move, to... _clarify_  things between them.

"I'm going to go pick up some things from the store," she continued. "Any requests for dinner?" The second the words were out of her mouth, she realized how bizarrely domestic they sounded. Good God, she might as well drop his suits off at the dry cleaner while she was at it.

"Something involving bacon," he said thoughtfully. "Every near-death experience reminds me that I don't eat nearly enough of it."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be back around 4. Get some rest, ok?"

"Agent Keen," he said as she made her way to the door.

She turned, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets expectantly.

"Thank you."

She smiled, giving him a small nod as she exited the room, closing the door behind her.

_To be continued._


	7. The Truth is Green

 

_Love, I have wounds_

_Only you can mend, you can mend_

_I guess that's love_

_I can't pretend, I can't pretend_

* * *

She was confused when she saw Dembe waiting for her as she pulled up to the house, her backseat stuffed full of groceries.

"Agent Keen. Can I give you a hand?" he asked as she stepped out of the car, his expression almost comically serious.

"Uh...yeah, sure, thank you," she muttered as he opened the back door and leaned in to grab her bags. When he straightened, she could see that he was carrying all eight of them. "I guess I'll get the door then," she said, clearly bemused. "Oh, and please—call me Liz," she added as they entered the house.

He set the bags down in the kitchen and began handing her items to put away. She could immediately see why Red was so fond of him; he was as graceful as he was intimidating, protective almost to a fault, wonderfully attentive, and almost achingly kind…honestly, she wished she had more people like him in her life.

She threw together some turkey sandwiches for lunch, gesturing him to sit with her at the kitchen table as she poured him a glass of lemonade. They ate in silence for several minutes before she summoned up the courage to ask him about Red.

"So, Reddington...you've known him a long time, haven't you?"

"Yes," Dembe said. There was a rich, pleasant timbre to his voice; Liz felt as if she could listen to him speak all day. "He rescued me from the Eberhardt cartel, many years ago," he explained.

His honesty was refreshing, and it helped explain a lot. So  _that's_  why he was so loyal to Red, and why Red had been more than happy to watch Floriana Campo die a slow suffocating death on the hotel room floor. Liz dropped her gaze to her plate, trying not to imagine the brutal horrors Dembe must have experienced as a trafficking victim. She swallowed uncomfortably.

"What happened to him, Dembe? What makes a man walk away from his family on Christmas Eve and choose a life...like this?"

Dembe helped himself to a bundle of grapes from a bowl on the table, picking them off the stem slowly as he thought, popping them into his mouth one by one. "I'm afraid that's not my story to tell," he said simply. "But if I were you, I wouldn't believe everything I read in an FBI file. Actually...I wouldn't believe any of it."

"So you're saying...his wife and daughter...he didn't abandon them," she said slowly. He didn't respond. "At least tell me this: do you think he's justified in any of this?"

He smiled, his eyebrows raising slightly. "I think only Allah knows the answer to that." He paused to take a sip of lemonade. "I never thanked you for saving his life. He does care for you, Liz. More than you know."

She sighed. "I just wish I knew  _why_."

"Does it matter?"

She almost laughed. He sounded just like Red...always encouraging her to sift out all the unnecessary details and focus only on what was truly important. "I don't know. Maybe not." She smiled at him and shook her head as he took another big bite of his sandwich, his eyes mischievous—full of secrets. She'd get the truth out of him one day, she was sure of it.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" she said suddenly. "I have another favor to ask of you." She stood up from the table and walked into the living room, returning with her purse. Unzipping an interior pocket, she extracted the fingerprint that Farid had shown her on the boat. It had been surprisingly easy to take (although rather difficult to hide...if only her dress had had pockets), and now she needed to find out exactly what Red's life was worth.

"Can you take this to one of his people and have them run it against our databases? All government and military employees—CIA, FBI, NSA, Army, Navy...you name it."

Dembe smirked as he took the artificial finger from her and stuffed it into his pocket. "Agent Keen, I must say...you are full of surprises."

"It's  _Liz_ ," she corrected with a sly smile. "Just...don't tell him about this, okay? Not yet."

"Alright," he said, clearly intrigued as he sucked another grape into his mouth. "Not a word. I promise."

* * *

Red let out a contented sigh. "Ah, Dembe, when was the last time we had the pleasure of a home-cooked meal? It feels like it's been  _ages_ ," he reckoned, lifting his empty wine glass as Liz reached across the table to refill it. Besides his unfortunate encounter with Janice and her stroganoff, he couldn't recall the last time someone had cooked for him what he considered a normal dinner meal.

"I don't remember," Dembe grinned, helping himself to another generous pile of mashed potatoes. "Wait, was it that elderly woman down in Monterrey?"

"Ohhh yes, what  _was_ her name...she was a feisty one wasn't she…"

"Roberta?"

"Roberta! Dear sweet Roberta. That had to have been over a year ago."

"Come on," Liz interjected. "You two can talk your way into any restaurant in the entire  _world_ , and you're saying you prefer  _this_." She gestured to the small spread of food on the dining room table, which included bacon-wrapped pork medallions, mashed potatoes, green beans, and some store-bought dinner rolls that she'd warmed up in the oven. It certainly wasn't anything special.

"Yes, well...it's the little things you miss," Red said somewhat wistfully, Dembe nodding in concurrence. "And of course, I know what  _you_  want," he teased, gazing down into the eager eyes of the little brown terrier waiting patiently next to his chair. He picked a small morsel of pork off of his plate. "I hope you don't mind if I just—"

"Actually, we were trying not to feed him from the table—" Liz started, but it was too late. Hudson was already licking his chops in anticipation of a second bite. She sighed, more upset about the fact that she'd said "we" again, as if her and Tom were still enjoying marital bliss. Yeah.  _Right_.

"Let him live a little, Lizzie. He can't have many years left." She couldn't help but smile when she thought of how Hudson, a dog that usually took hours and sometimes even  _days_ to warm up to strangers, had been absolutely taken with Red from the moment he walked through the door.  _He must just have that effect_ , she thought.

When they'd all been thoroughly and properly satiated (including Hudson), Red lit himself a cigar and Dembe helped Liz clear the table. She joined him at the kitchen sink as he turned on the faucet, laughing when they knocked elbows as he began to scrub the dishes, handing them over to her for drying. He gave her a playful shove with his shoulder, sending them both into hysterics as she grabbed the retractable spray nozzle and directed it at him.

Red observed them with a bemused smile. "Alright you two! Honestly. I leave you alone for  _one day_ …" He shook his head.

"You're just jealous because he's way more charming than you," Liz teased. Dembe grinned and nodded his agreement.

"Dembe, you're fired," Red countered facetiously, and so the evening went, with everyone in unusually high spirits. It certainly didn't seem like the right time to begin a serious conversation, so Red decided to wait until they'd turned in for the night. He had spent all day with the assumption that he'd be sharing the guest room with Dembe; however, when she brought him home from the hospital, he had found his garment bags and suitcase laid out in the master bedroom, causing him a great deal of curiosity as to precisely what sleeping arrangement she had in mind.

He knew he'd find out soon enough. He smiled as he brought the cigar to his lips, savoring it as he slowly drew in its oaky flavor. After all she'd been through, it was so nice to see her  _happy_  for once, to hear her laughter echo throughout the house, and see something other than pain swimming in those crystal blue eyes.

He was in love with her—of that he had become utterly certain. Now he needed only to decide whether it was best to stay and confess his feelings, or to assure her safety by letting her go…by disappearing into the night and never looking back.

* * *

She was surprised to find him lying in bed when she stepped out of the bathroom, causing her to tighten the tie on her bathrobe self-consciously. He was on top of the blankets, his head and shoulders propped up by a small mountain of pillows, his legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded across his chest. Apparently he'd been dozing as he waited for her to finish showering.

"Is this Tom's side?" he inquired, making no effort to disguise the note of derision in his voice.

"Yes. It  _was_  Tom's side. Now…now I just sort of sleep in the middle." He nodded. "Is that what you're sleeping in?" she asked. He was still wearing the burgundy button-down he had changed into earlier, along with his black slacks. His belt and shoes were lying on the floor at the foot of the bed next to his suitcase.

"Yes. When you live a life as...uncertain...as mine, it helps to be ready to travel at a moment's notice."

"Suit yourself," she said, making her way to the opposite side of the bed. "Is everything okay?" she added when she took in his anxious expression.

A silence fell between them, and from the way his jaw moved, it was obvious that he was chewing on a question. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet. "Why did you save me, Lizzie?" When she didn't respond, he decided to clarify. "Last night you had an opportunity to put an end to all this. My... _involvement_ in your life."

She stood motionless at the edge of the bed as she searched his eyes, wondering what he wanted to hear. The truth, undoubtedly. But the truth was complicated. The truth was that in those few terrifying moments when she thought she had lost him, a dark hopelessness crept into her heart...and with it, the realization that Raymond Reddington was the only person who truly loved her. She thought of how he looked at her through the blood smeared glass of the box the day that Anslo Garrick had infiltrated the black site. How desperate he had been to get out and make the ultimate sacrifice for her. At times, she felt like nothing more than a pawn in his game, but what use is a pawn if the chess master is dead? Whatever end goal he had, it wasn't worth as much to him as her life. And yet sometimes...sometimes she hated him for it. What right did he have to come barging into her world, destroy everything she held dear, and then insist on keeping her alive to watch it all burn?

If her experience with Tom taught her anything, it should have been to trust no one, even Red. Hell, Red even said it himself: The ones we love most are in the best position to deceive us. And yet that only leaves a person with two options: they could refuse to let themselves get close to anyone, or they could love anyway, consequences be damned. The first choice pretty much guaranteed survival, but only the second could lead to a life that was actually worth living.

When it came down to it, Liz was forced to admit that for her, there was only the illusion of choice. She had already let herself get close to Red. And with each unexpected confession, each show of vulnerability, he was letting himself get close to her as well. So yes, the truth was complicated: neither black nor white, but green.

She crawled onto the bed and propped herself up next to him, tugging at her robe to make sure she was properly covered. It was time to take a page from his book and practice some expert-level evasion. "Tell me about your daughter."

She watched the color drain quickly from his face, his expression unreadable. He swallowed. "What would you like to know?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What was she like? I know...I  _know_  you didn't just walk out on them."

He was silent for so long that she nearly decided to give up and change the subject. Finally he licked his lips and cleared his throat, raising his eyes to meet hers. "She was...my whole world," he began. Liz could see the muscles in his neck flex tensely, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down erratically as he fought for words. A wistful smile crept across his face as he indulged himself in the memory of his daughter's sweet, innocent face, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, wearing that smile that could erase every one of his cares in little more than a heartbeat…

He pursed his lips and parted them again, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. "Seeing life through her eyes...it was like...every  _caterpillar_  in the garden, every… orange creamsicle from the ice cream man, every airplane contrail blazing across the sky on a hot summer day...it all deserved to be cherished. She saw  _beauty_  where I saw only the ordinary."

"Red...I'm so sorry," she whispered, her throat constricting.

"Oh, how I would give... _anything_...for just one more chance to tell her how much I lo—love..." he squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaking down his cheeks as his body began to convulse silently, the only sound that of ragged breaths forced through his clenched teeth. He turned toward her, burying his face in her neck as she rubbed the back of his head, attempting to soothe him the way she often soothed Hudson in the middle of a particularly nasty thunderstorm. It took several minutes for him to calm down, and she guessed that he probably hadn't let himself cry like that in a very,  _very_  long time.

When he had exhausted his tears into the collar of her bathrobe (some gathering in warm salty pools at the base of her neck), he leaned back to look at her, his eyelids swollen and red-rimmed. "All these years," he said wearily. "Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed...like I'm hardly any closer to discovering the truth than when I began."

She pressed her right palm against his cheek, gently wiping the skin beneath his eye with her thumb. She left her own tears unattended, trickling haphazardly past the corners of her lips.

"At least  _one_ thing has changed," she noted, smiling. "You have me."

She watched as a range of emotions passed through his eyes, a swirling mix of grey and green and hope and regret and happiness and despair and finally... _longing_. He took her hand slowly from his cheek and pressed his lips against her scar, his eyes drifting shut and then fluttering open again to gauge her reaction. She was still smiling, her expression more or less mirroring his own.

Without breaking eye contact, he sat up and unfastened his shoulder sling, setting it carefully on his bedside table. Wincing briefly, he stretched out his arm and delicately separated the two halves of her bathrobe above the waist, creating an opening just wide enough for him to press his mouth to her belly, just above her navel. He felt her abdominal muscles tighten and eventually relax under his lips as he placed soft, open-mouthed kisses against her stomach, moving slowly up between her breasts and along her collarbone, finally arriving just below her right ear. "And you have me," he whispered, his breath deliciously hot against her neck and sweet with the lingering scent of Merlot.

She grasped the back of his neck as their lips met, urgently but tenderly—two battered, sea-tossed ships that had let down their anchors at last.

After considerable time had passed, she pressed a hand to his chest, urging him to lie on his back and rest his shoulder. Swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him, she began to calmly unbutton his shirt, stopping when she felt his hand encircle her wrist.

"Lizzie...you  _must_  know that there's no such thing as a happy ending for me— _with_  me. This path I've chosen...it leads only deeper into the darkness."

She knew. Of all the possible scenarios she had considered, not one of them involved Raymond Reddington dying at a ripe old age, surrounded by his wife and children and friends who loved him. Not one.

"Maybe so," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean you have to walk that path alone."

"Ah, but you deserve so mu—" he stopped mid-word as with one fluid motion she untied her robe and shrugged out of it, letting it fall off her shoulders into a soft heap beside the bed. He raised his eyebrows, suddenly forgetting what it was that he wanted to say.

She finished unbuttoning his shirt, frowning at the sight of his badly scarred chest. One of his tattoos had been so disfigured by burns that she couldn't even tell what it was, and his stomach was criss-crossed with lacerations, raised and white and faded with time. She ran her fingers lightly over his skin, taking in every puncture wound, every cut, every burn. For a moment it looked as if she might cry again.

"It's okay, Lizzie," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

"I'm sorry, but in what universe is this okay?"

"It's just the price of doing what I do...of being what I am."

She nodded, blinking away the mist that had begun to gather in her eyes. "Your question...the one you asked me a moment ago. Ask it again," she said, leaning forward to plant several kisses against his chest. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of her lips against his skin, the scent of her shampoo filling his nostrils. God, she smelled like springtime.

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Why did you jump off the boat, Lizzie?"

"Because I love you," she said firmly, smiling at the fire she'd just ignited in his eyes.

_Oh, feel our bodies grow_

_And our souls they blend_

_Yeah love I hope you know_

_How much my heart depends_

_I guess that's love_

_I can't pretend, I can't pretend_

* * *

She woke to a warm tongue against her cheek, followed by soft panting and a cool wet nose sliding over her earlobe.  _Hudson_. She opened her eyes and attempted to swat him away, momentarily surprised to find her arm in a dark red sleeve.  _Red's shirt_. She lifted her head, peeling back the blankets to find nothing but empty sheets beside her. Her heart sank as she ran her hand over the place where he'd been—the sheets were cold.

" _No_ ," she whispered, taking a moment to inhale the scent of Red's collar around her neck. "Dammit." So it had all been too good to be true. He had never really meant to stay with her after all. She twisted onto her stomach, falling face first into her pillow as she began to cry.

 _To be continued_.

(Lyrics from "Can't Pretend" by Tom Odell)


	8. Forgiveness

He let her carry on for awhile, suppressing a laugh when Hudson began to paw frantically at her shoulders in a rather heart-warming display of genuine canine concern. Finally, he decided it was only right to plunge ahead and put her out of her misery.

He cleared his throat loudly.

"I uh...I think he's looking for breakfast," he began. Liz froze mid-sob, twisting slowly to look over her shoulder at him. He was leaning against the door frame, fully dressed for the day (sans suit jacket), the hand belonging to his good arm shoved casually in his trouser pocket. "At least that's my best guess," he continued. "Dembe already took him for a rather lengthy stroll, and I believe he's marked his territory all the way to 16th Street."

"You're...still here," she said dumbly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, which had somehow been buttoned around her. Funny, she didn't remember ever putting it on.  _Well this is embarrassing_ , she thought.

"Honestly Lizzie, I'm beginning to have doubts about your investigative skills. If you'd have turned your head about...ohhh…three inches to the left, you'd see that my watch is still on the bedside table. And if you'd have just...peeked over the edge of the bed here, you'd have found my suitcase in its rather lovely state of disarray. Not to mention the racket we've been making downstairs…which reminds me. Breakfast is ready!" he announced cheerily.

"I'm...sorry, I guess I just assumed…"

"That I'd leave you? Yes. I'm awfully good at that, aren't I?" He moved to sit beside her and she sat up to accommodate him, drawing her knees tightly to her chest, only marginally aware that she was still very much exposed from the waist down. "I'll be honest with you Lizzie, I was halfway out the door around three o'clock this morning. I even had Dembe start to pack the car. And then I thought:  _you fool_." He sighed and began to rub his forehead. He definitely looked as if he'd hardly slept a wink.

"What made you change your mind?" she asked carefully, unsure of whether or not she really wanted to hear his answer. If it had something to do with him needing her to gain access to information, so help her God…

"Because I've been running away from things for far too long," he said seriously, a hint of determination in his voice. "Look at me, Lizzie.  _I love you._  There's only one thing in this world that I'm afraid of, and that's losing you. It makes me act...irrationally."

"What a coincidence," she replied softly. "The only thing I'm afraid of losing  _you_."

He pressed his lips against hers and they were warm and soft and tasted like cheap Folgers coffee from her kitchen pantry and it occurred to her for a moment that maybe they could just disappear together—disappear to some remote island somewhere and never look back. But no. This quest they found themselves on...it was bigger than the both of them. Like Mulder and Scully, the truth was out there and they were the only ones who could uncover it. And maybe when they did—maybe then they could finally rest.

"What ahh...what did you say was for breakfast?" she inquired, giggling as he peppered her neck with kisses. "I'm  _starving_!"

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask," he grinned. He pulled her to her feet and she slipped on a pair of panties before following him out the door, still wearing nothing but his dark red button-down shirt.

"Better not be pancakes…" she muttered as they made their way into the kitchen.

"Now why would I do that? You  _hate_  pancakes." She sat down at the table and he handed her a cup of coffee, sending a twinge of guilt searing through her conscience; after all,  _she_  was supposed to be taking care of _him_. Dembe was nowhere in sight, and she wondered if maybe he was off collecting intel on the fingerprint she gave him.

"How do strawberry crêpes sound?" he asked.

"Like heaven."

He set a plate of crêpes in front of her, complete with a side of bacon and scrambled eggs. "You did all of this with one hand?" she asked incredulously.

"Mmhmm. Just wait until you see what I can do with two," he added with a wink, joining her at the table.

"Which reminds me...last night...last night was…" she searched in vain for a word to describe what it was like, making love with Raymond Reddington. As it turned out, there were no words (although, later that day she thought of one that came close:  _ecstasy_ ).

"I hope you won't judge me too harshly," he mumbled through a mouthful of strawberries. "The whole bullet-hole-in-the-arm situation sort of...cramps my style.  _You_ , on the other hand—"

"I was  _going_  to say that last night was  _perfect_ ," she said, eyeing him affectionately over the top of her mug as she took a long, much overdue sip of liquid energy. "How's your shoulder?"

"Sore. But if my... _physical therapy_  is anything remotely like last night, I must say that I'm  _very_  much looking forward to the recovery process."

She laughed.  _Too much_ , she thought. He was just. too. much. And to think, she had almost been afraid of him, once upon a time. Much to her dismay, he spoke before she could come up with a witty retort. "So what's on the agenda for today, Nurse Keen?"

"Oh...uh...well, I...I just assumed that you probably had business to attend—"

"I think I could go a nice bath, how about you? I noticed the tub in your downstairs bathroom is rather...spacious."

"You want to take a bath... _together_?"

Red chuckled. "I can't do it alone, Lizzie, and if I recall...Dr. Moustache mumbled something through his moustache about keeping my incisions dry for three days."

Lizzie smiled. It was the only thing she could remember about his doctor as well: a big, brown moustache that reminded her of a can of Pringles. "Besides," he continued. "it'll help soothe our sore muscles."

She couldn't argue with that. When they finished eating, she insisted on clearing the table and then went to start the water in the tub. She heard him call to her as she ran her fingers beneath the faucet, checking to make sure the temperature was just right. "What was that?" she called back.

"I said, throw in some of those expensive-looking bath salts I saw in the cupboard under the sink. You've never even opened them."  _What a little snoop_ , she thought. She wondered if he knew about those from wandering the house this morning, or from watching the surveillance tapes of her and Tom. She wandered back into the kitchen so she wouldn't have to yell.

"They were a wedding gift, actually," she said. "We never seemed to have time for baths."

"Ah...in that case, I guess Tom has proved himself useful after all," he smiled.

* * *

She didn't notice them until she stripped down and stepped over the side of the tub into the water behind him.  _Scars_. And not just any scars, no—his back was as textured as a popcorn ceiling, webbed with dark pink pockmarks and smooth, raised ridges… no, these weren't just any scars. At first she thought it must be an optical illusion...perhaps the harsh lighting over the vanity was casting strange shadows over his skin. Why hadn't she noticed them last night?

Oh, right. Because she had kept him on his back all last night…

He was silent, waiting for her react, to say something, to say  _anything_ …

"Oh my God," she whispered. "What the hell happened to you?" Instead of lowering herself into the water, she decided to take a seat on the edge of the tub.

He turned to look at her and his eyes seemed dull, distant. It felt like ages before he spoke, and when he did, he didn't sound like himself. "There was a fire," he said flatly. "I was fourteen."

She felt her breath catch in her chest as her eyes drifted automatically to her palm. She hadn't missed the reference. He was returning the same half-truth she had given to him when he'd asked her about her own scar. But why?  _Think,_ Liz.  _You're a profiler_ , _for goodness sake._  Why had he chosen this particular activity at this particular time? Those scars...were they from  _the_  fire?  _Her_  fire? The puzzle pieces slid around in her head and her mind whirled like a carousel, until suddenly...suddenly everything just  _clicked_ , and she could breathe again.

She had told him she loved him. And here they were, both naked, completely exposed and vulnerable  _physically_ , and yet there was still so much hidden inside...still so much lurking beneath the surface. And now, with literally everything laid bare before her, he needed to know if she could still love him. If she could even  _forgive_  him, knowing the terrible truth that…

"You set the fire," she said quietly.

A pause. "I was responsible for it, yes."

"To kill my father?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "Walk me through it."

"Lizzie, I—"

"No, just...please. Tell me what happened that night. I need to know."

He took a deep breath and locked eyes with her, determined not to look away (no matter how painful it got). He cleared his throat. "After I was positive that your father had...succumbed...to the flames, I was more than ready to flee the scene. I had just made it out the back door into the fresh air when I heard it—a little girl, crying. I didn't...I didn't know, Lizzie, didn't have the slightest inkling, otherwise I never would have…" he trailed off and began again slowly, deliberately.

"I found you in your bedroom and pulled you out, but not before a rather sizeable chunk of the ceiling came down on me, here," he used his good arm to reach backward and trace an area that covered much of his shoulders and back. "When we got outside I set you down and rolled in the grass...I was in  _excruciating_  pain, but somehow...somehow I got us out of there." He paused and she nodded for him to continue. "You stayed with me for ten days while I recovered with the aid of an acquaintance, and then I took you straight to the only place where I knew you'd be safe: with my best friend, Sam."

There were so many more questions she wanted to ask, but now was not the time. She frowned as he closed his eyes and looked away, bracing himself for her reaction. It was the only big thing that still loomed between them, as far as he was concerned. Sure, there were other details about her life that he knew and she didn't, but as for his  _involvement_ , this was it...this was his final confession. Could she still love him now, knowing what he had done?

So absorbed was he in his own misery that he didn't even notice when she settled in behind him—that is, until she reached her arms around his middle, tugging him against her until his body was flush with hers and she felt the strange sensation of his scars against her chest. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she reached for a washcloth and soaked it, squeezing it gently against the side of his neck and watching as streams of warm water snaked their way down his spine.

His body was heavy and limp in her arms and his head drooped forward as she scrubbed the back of his neck, between his shoulders, around his incision… finally she leaned into him and breathed quietly into his ear: " _Thank you...for saving my life_." She kissed the edge of his jaw and he twisted to look at her, tears streaming down his face as she kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and finally his lips. She cupped his face, her hands sliding around his ears, into his hair...

It was a kiss of forgiveness.

He extracted himself from her legs and turned around completely to face her, hovering over her with his weight on both arms as if he had no injuries whatsoever. Her skin glistened in the water and she watched the stitches in his shoulder pull and stretch as he slid one hand down over her hip, underneath her thigh...

She'd never had sex in a bathtub before. (Surprisingly, neither had he.)

Later they stood in front of the mirror and admired their new, temporary scars. They both had bite marks in various places and, much to his delight, he had quite the criss-cross of scratches on his back.

"I think our physical therapy sessions might actually be making things worse," she remarked, making a mental note to completely re-do his stitches. He laughed.

Just when she was about to give him a playful slap on the rear, the doorbell rang.

"Don't answer it," he warned as she reached for her bathrobe. She hesitated at the bathroom doorway, hoping whoever it was would go away.

A second ring gave way to incessant pounding, and a voice she  _definitely_  hadn't expected to hear: "Oy, Keen...open up! I know you're in there!" Liz sighed and put on her bathrobe as she made her way to the foyer. Doing her best to look innocent, she swung open the door to a very,  _very_  stunned Donald Ressler.

"Hey Ressler, what's up?"

He wasn't looking at her face.

"Donald!" she snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "I said,  _what's up_?"

"Oh, uh...sorry. This is obviously a bad—I mean I...I just came to see how you were doing. Where's Reddington? He giving you any trouble?"

 _That's an interesting question_ , she thought, suppressing a smile. "No, he's been strangely cooperative, actually."

"Good, good. Well, it's definitely not the same without you at wor—" he stopped dead when he caught sight of Red, also wearing a bathrobe, wandering down the hallway behind her. His jaw dropped. "Reddington!" he yelled, pushing his way past Liz into the house.

"Donald!" Red greeted him merrily. "What a pleasant surprise. You know, I don't think we have any crêpes left, but I could offer you a banana. And please! Come sit down."

"What the  _hell_  do you two think you're doing?" Ressler hissed, looking from Liz to Red and back to Liz again.

"I realize it's probably been so long for you that you don't recognize it, but...well, when a man loves a woman…" Red almost blacked out when Liz smacked his shoulder,  _hard_.

"Liz. Can I talk to you privately for a moment?"

"I think that would be a good idea," she said, casting a nasty glare in Red's direction (he grinned). She led Ressler to the living room, leaving Red to his own devices in the kitchen.

"Are you  _nuts_?!" Ressler whispered.

"Maybe...maybe a little bit. But Don, listen to me—he's not the man we thought he was. He's…look, I know what I'm doing, okay?"

"Forgive me, but I don't think you do. Liz, he's  _dangerous_. Not to mention a fugitive. And a murderer...and a traitor...and the list goes on and on." It was annoying, how he said it. Like she was stupid. Like she hadn't been working with the man for the better part of a year already.

"I  _know_."

"I admit, I saw the way you were looking at him in the car the other night, but I thought...I thought it was because he might be related to you, or because you were just emotional about everything that happened, but never...never because…"

"I love him."

He stared at her.

"Are you going to tell on me?"

He sighed and looked at his hands. "No. I'm not. Because honestly...right now...you two are the only ones I trust. Just...be careful, okay?"

She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I will.  _Thank you_."  _Now get out of here_ , she thought.

When he left, she entered the kitchen to find Red in what appeared to be his actual favorite suit—his  _birthday_  suit— browsing the contents of the refrigerator. "Need help getting dressed?" she said, amused.

"Not really."

"Let me rephrase that: Go get dressed, will ya? At least before Dembe gets back?"

"Where  _is_  Dembe?" Red asked. "Oh, right. He's off running errands for  _you_  now. Which reminds me: does this have anything to do with the evidence you stole from the  _Cherry Blossom_?"

"He told you?"

"I assumed. From what I understand, when the FBI combed through the crime scene they found Farid's body as well as Marshall's, along with a portfolio of fake IDs and enough cash to fill an ATM. What they didn't find, Lizzie, is the fingerprint that  _you_  claimed was in Farid's possession when he died. Tell me...where did you put it when you jumped overboard?" His eyes roamed over her body, and it was clear he had some ideas.

"Okay first of all, I'm never telling you that. And second of all, if you knew I stole the evidence, why wait until now to ask me about it?"

"Didn't seem like pillow talk, I guess."

She rolled her eyes. "Dembe is going to find out who it belongs to."

"And speak of the devil!" Red said as Dembe entered through the back door. The fact that Red was as naked as the day he was born and Liz was in a bathrobe didn't really seem to phase him as he crossed the kitchen and handed Liz a slip of paper.

"Liz," he nodded courteously as she unfolded the slip of paper, frowning at the name she saw. "Scott Cragen? Who is that?" She looked up quizzically.

Dembe shot a weary glance at Red, who suddenly looked like he'd just seen a ghost. "I'm going to go get dressed now," he said, moving quickly toward the bathroom.

"Dembe...what database did this come from? Navy? CIA?"

"I think we should wait for Raymond," Dembe said simply, staring at his shoes.

Liz sat down at the kitchen table and fidgeted with the slip of paper until Red re-emerged, fully dressed. He sat down beside her and sighed.

"Red, you're scaring me. Who's Scott Cragen?"

"A dead man, Lizzie." He swallowed hard. "Scott Cragen is an alias used by a man that I'm certain is dead."

"A man… who?"

There was a long silence as Red worked his jaw back and forth, his forehead creasing as he struggled to say the two words he knew would rip her apart in an instant.

"Your father."

* * *

They cuddled that night. She snuggled up against his side and he kissed her hair; they listened to each other breathe and she rested her hand over his heart. They still had so much to figure out: who had Tom been working for? What was his relationship with Jolene Parker? Why was a fingerprint belonging to Liz's father being passed between common criminals? Was he really dead? And why did Ressler say that they were the only ones he could trust? Red found himself unable to answer any of them, and so, for the time being, they set aside the uncertainty that threatened to undo them and sought the certainty of one another. Sure, there would be darkness in the days ahead, but also light, and life—humor and happiness.

Liz listened as his breathing slowed, smiling when he began snoring lightly. She thought back to the day she had found him in Rodrick's hat shop so many months ago, accusing him of decoding CIA messages on behalf of the Chinese. She'd never forget what he said.

" _You make it sound like treason, so black and white. It's not. It's green."_

How right he had been. After all, in the end, it was there in those murky green places that they'd found each other, and—by extension—found their home.

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super satisfied with the ending, but it's an ending! And it brings in the mysteries we've been left to consider all summer long. Thanks again for all of your wonderful, helpful reviews over the course of this story. Enjoy hiatus everyone, and bring on Season 2!


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